Somewhere not far from where I sleep is an apple. I suspect it is a half-eaten one. Certainly, it is more than just the core.
Do you remember the 70s Green Apple? Shampoo, laundry liquid, the powder other people’s mothers sprinkled on their carpets before they vacuumed.
This isn’t like that. You would not bottle this smell, artificially infuse it into things.
You would not advertise this smell.
I fall asleep vaguely aware that the apple is near. I wish it weren’t there in the way that I wish the week’s newspapers had not sprawled from my bed to the door, that my list of un-read books were stabler than it looks, that my glass of water were fresh.
The apple flavours my dreams which are, nonetheless, of enormous waves which carry without swamping me; of elevators taking me high and low; of children who purr.
I wake. The apple’s smell gives shape to my days. Before I have finished drying myself I am thinking of the lunchbox which didn’t get emptied last night and of the washing which needs to be done (this being Friday).
I would find it. Or at least I would look for the apple and it’s half-exposed core.
I would look, if, when I flicked the switch, it did not – even after two weeks – make me think ‘oh, someone really should fix that’.