Comfort Me With Apples

by Catherynne M. Valente

He’s warned her that heavy lunches make heavy hips, and Sophia wishes always to be his light.

“Your husband’s name is Adam. The Big A. Number one on the factory line. Old Mr. Dust. And that is a key to his basement. It is almost finished.”

She asks a question older than day and night. “Why doesn’t He love me like He loves you?” Tears fall down her perfect face. “Why does He let you do this? Why won’t He tell you to stop?”