Late October sun slants through yellow leaves, spotlighting the Royal Apple Company cart like it’s auditioning for a rom-com cameo. Harry’s already grumbling, “Four-fifty for sugar on a stick? That’s practically orchard extortion”, while Sally orders her caramel apple “with nuts on only one side, please, and can you slice it?” The vendor doesn’t blink; he’s heard stranger requests.
They wander toward the park bench, steam curling from a shared cup of cider. Harry insists apple stands are just pop-up dental plans; Sally counters that fall isn’t fall without sticky fingers and cinnamon. He rolls his eyes, she laughs, and somewhere between sip three and slice four they agree: if relationships were produce, his would be a Bartlett pear; complicated shape, bruises easy. Hers? A Honeycrisp; sweet, but expects refrigeration.
A leaf lands in Sally’s hair; Harry reaches to flick it away and, for once, says nothing sarcastic. In the pause, the neon bulbs on the cart flicker on, and it occurs to both of them that maybe the best love stories start exactly like this, halfway between a joke and a perfectly sliced apple.
