Fruits of the Sea

She wore a loose white shirt with random green apples distributed on it: one at the shoulder, two adjacent ones on the waist, three scattered around the chest, and a single incomplete apple on the shirt sleeve.

As for the lower half, she had an accordion skirt that reached her knees.

We ordered seafood for dinner by candlelight, as she wished, although I preferred grilled chicken or stuffed parsley hamour fish, or a fried shrimp plate.

I was going to tell her that, but she seemed to know what she was asking for.

As she spoke, the green apples flowed from side to side on her shirt, exchanging positions, while the beach sent faint, distant whispers.

I said I couldn't imagine myself eating seafood, and that it was better for someone like me to pick apples from her shirt. She laughed and poured herself a drink. For a fraction of a second, I thought the shoulder apple would fall on her lap.

Someone turned on the sound system, and calm music started playing from all sides, mixing with the air. A waiter brought a dish of grilled meat to a family of two men and four women, two tables away, and the smell mixed with the air and music.

I told her I didn't feel like eating seafood.

"Wait until you try it," she advised me confidently, ignoring the look on my face when I uttered the last sentence, and then she asked me to dance with her.

I watched the green apples swimming on her body, as if sliding down a snowy slope. Every time she raised her hand, the wrist apple almost fell, or the shoulder apple almost lost its balance, while the chest apples came together and moved apart, performing a special dance.

At first, my arms were stiff because of the intense looks around us. But soon enough, enthusiasm overtook us, and two girls joined our dance, followed by other people.

She pointed to a 20-year-old waiter pulling a small cart in front of him, as if she was showing him the location of our table, then she took me by the hand, and brought me back to my place.