#dolarhyde

You clasped Francis’s hand as you walked through the fairgrounds together, taking in all the sights and smells. Francis had never been big on attending things like this, mostly due to his social anxiety and his self-consciousness about his appearance. Even though you’d assured him multiple times that you loved how he looked (and that no one cared), he was still hesitant to show his face outside of his workplace. You’d finally convinced him to attend the festival by gifting him a black surgical mask, which seemed to comfort him some. 

“What do you want?” Francis asked. You could hear his soft breath moving through his teeth and over his scarred lip, his nostrils flexing to produce the correct sounds. You squeezed his hand and leaned against him.  “I kind of want a candy apple.” 

Francis scoffed and you grinned up at him. 

“What?” 

“Those things will rip your teeth out.” 

You stared at him for a long moment, trying to figure out if he wanted you to laugh or not. You knew he was sensitive about his cleft palate and the dentures he had to wear, and you’d never make fun of that fact. Francis looked down at you and there were crows feet around his eyes. He was smiling under his mask. 

“You’re so mean,” you sighed, nudging him toward the apple stand. You could see in the distance that there was also a barrel filled with water and apples. You’d heard about bobbing for apples before, but it had always seemed like a sort of myth made up by movies. 

The lady at the apple stand smiled warmly at you, her golden hair braided around her head. She wore a white apron over her clothes and black nitrile gloves on her hands. 

“What can I get for you?” 

“A caramel apple, please,” you said, as your eyes scanned the laminated menu on the table. “You offer sliced apples, too?” 

“Sure do. Not everyone likes biting into a whole apple, especially with candy on it.” 

“Could we also get a plain apple that’s sliced?” 

“Of course. Gala or Granny Smith?” 

“Gala, please.” 

The woman placed a caramel apple on a paper doilie and handed it to you, then she pulled out a pinkish orange apple and cut it into eight small slices. She placed it in a paper bowl and handed it to you as well. Francis paid for the apples and you moved off to the side. 

“Here you go,” you said as you handed the bowl to Francis. 

“Oh.” He hesitated as he held the bowl in his hands, staring down at the apples. He remembered trying to eat apples when he was younger. He remembered how difficult it was, how painful. It’d almost seemed like his grandmother had given him the apple just to see if he really was a circus freak. He remembered nothing of the taste or texture, just the feeling of being punished. 

“I thought you might like to try it,” you said sweetly, gently. “Caramel would definitely get stuck in your teeth, but apple slices should be easier to eat. If you don’t want it, I’ll eat it.” 

Francis hesitated again, staring at the white slices gleaming in the autumn sunlight. He hooked his finger around the earloop of his surgical mask and pulled it off, letting one side dangle from the other ear. He picked up one slice — small, juicy, sticky — and examined it carefully. He’d put his “good” dentures in this morning, as he did every morning with you, but he still worried that something would go wrong. Would the apple tear his dentures out? Would it get stuck in them? Would his cleft palate open up and would the apple get lodged into his sinus cavity? Would he choke on the fruit? 

“You don’t have to eat it,” you said softly, watching him closely. You were beginning to regret buying him the fruit. Now that you thought of it, you didn’t remember ever seeing him eat an apple, whole or sliced. Had you ever seen him eat fruit at all? 

Francis cautiously placed the tip of the slice in his mouth and bit down slowly. He felt his false teeth split through the white flesh and pause momentarily at the skin. Then the skin popped and the piece of apple rolled into his mouth, getting crushed between teeth. A burst of sweet juice filled his mouth and washed over his tongue. Some of it dripped off his lip and down his chin. He chewed until he was certain the apple had been pulverized and then he swallowed. 

You held your breath as you watched him. The sunlight caught the bead of fresh juice on his lip, glinting almost white. Francis put the rest of the slice in his mouth, chewed for a long time, then swallowed again. He met your gaze and smiled. 

“It’s good.” 

You grinned wildly and threw one arm over his shoulder, pulling him down into a sweet, apple-tinged kiss. 

“I’m so glad you liked it,” you murmured against his mouth. 

He chuckled and kissed you again. “Anything for you.” 

When you let him go, he pulled his surgical mask back on to cover his face. You held his hand and couldn’t contain your smile. 

“Come on,” he muttered, tugging you through the crowd of people, “let’s go do something.” 

You motioned toward the row of games set up nearby. “Why don’t we try that? I’ve only ever seen it on TV.” 

“What is it?” 

“Bobbing for apples.” 

Francis turned and stared, unamused, at you. “Absolutely not. I’ve had enough apples for one day.”