The Golden Harbor
You press the knife into the apple. It resists. The skin is taut, yellow, bruised at the stem. You cut. Juice runs. It is thick. It is cold. You are in the kitchen. The walls are white. The floor is wood. It is old. It creaks. You do not look up. You do not breathe. You slice. The fruit falls into two halves. Then four. Then eight. You stop. The pieces are small. They are uniform. You place...
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