Apple + Pumpkin

He brings me a gigantic apple as a present, instead of flowers. He places it next to my miniature pumpkin that I’ve had out since Halloween. “Look at how cute they are—a pumpkin that isn’t normally little and an apple that isn’t normally big. They're so different. It’s like you and me,” he says. We snap a picture.

“You’re just like a pumpkin because I’m convinced you turn into one every night when you go running away so abruptly,” he says.

***

I take him out to dinner. We ride to 58th Street from St. Marks on his motorcycle, weaving through cabs as he flicks them off (“they’re a menace to this city!” I hear him yell over the wind) and I hold on for dear life, imagining I am going to die any moment in these ridiculous high-heeled boots I’m wearing.

The restaurant is very proper with chandeliers and plush red walls and roses and candles on every table. We walk in with our helmets and everyone in their suits stops to stare at us. For effect, I accidentally knock a vase over with my helmet. The owner comes by to discuss motorcycles and his youth and he comps us a bottle of wine.

***

But there is a destructive side of me, so I ask, “Do you really believe in conspiracy theories? Like, do you earnestly and honestly believe in them?”

“I don’t believe in theories,” he says. “I believe in science, proven things. What you see on the media is the real ‘theory’. Your parents are from Iran. You should know this.”

I try not to let him see me smile. I hold myself back from debating. I change the subject, willful amnesia.

One radio is running NPR in the back of his place by the kitchen. Another radio is running a different talk radio show in the front of the apartment, in the living room. Both are talking about how Zuccotti Park was evicted. We stare at the books that line the shelves on every wall.