Sweet Enough to Hurt

A touching short story about memory, war, and the small acts of love (like a red apple) that linger long after goodbyes.

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The boy was as frail as he’d always been, cupping a bruised, swollen face as he sniffled behind the adults, staring at the fruits with wet eyes.

The fruit vendor smiled at him while serving the last of his customers, then called him over with a wave. "Those boys again?" he asked.

The boy nodded.

The vendor sighed, shaking his head before pulling a ripe, red apple from its hiding spot and handing it to him.

The boy held it in two small hands. "It's because I'm small," he said, staring at the apple.

"Don't lose hope yet, boy. Your father was about as small as you when he was your age... then he grew as big as an ox."

The boy looked up. "What was he like?"

"As stubborn as an ox, too." The vendor let out a deep, rolling laugh.

The boy smiled shyly, thanked him for the apple, and ran off.

Years later, the vendor’s hair had begun peppering with grey at the temples. It was late, the street quiet save for his last customer—whom he served what he thought would be the final bag of fruit for the day. In the dusk’s gold-purple haze, he began closing the shutters of his stall.

"Am I too late?"

He turned. The boy wasn’t frail anymore—fifteen now, filling out his frame, his shoulders broad enough to bear the sky. He was certainly his father’s son, and he might have resembled him even more if not for the bruises swelling his face.

"What happened?" The vendor tossed him an apple. There was blood on the boy’s knuckles.

The boy ran his thumb over the fruit, studying it before sitting on the curb with a deep sigh. He took a bite before answering. "It was those boys again," he said softly. "They’d been leaving me alone for a while, but for some reason..." He chewed his lip. "I fought back this time."

"Good," the vendor said with a nod.

The boy shook his head. "I think I fought a little too hard." He took another bite, chewing slowly as he stared into the distance, the shadows on his face deepening with the fading light. "I’ll be turning myself in."

The vendor said nothing. He only sat beside the boy with an apple of his own and ate with him.

More years passed, and the vendor hardly recognized the boy when he approached—tall, broad, a sight in uniform. A lot of the boys were in uniform now.

"So, shipping you off, are they?"

The boy nodded.

"I’ll be with friends."

"I never thought that was a good idea, sending all the boys from one place in the same troop."

"Isn’t that how it’s always been?"

The vendor huffed. "Nothing about this war is like how it’s always been." He reached for the apple in its hiding place and handed it over, gripping the boy’s hand with both of his. He studied the boy’s face, hard and long, and the boy gripped his hands in return.

"This is my choice, old man. I never did like bullies."

The vendor laughed, but there was a weight in his voice. "No, I suppose you never did."

Years later, his hair had gone all grey, his skin leathery, the stall mostly empty—and what remained was slightly rotten. All the good fruit was reserved for the boys on the front lines, or so they said.

It was getting dark now, twilight. It was twilight for the war as well—or so they claimed—everything coming to a close. He’d seen some boys return, not quite whole: a missing arm, a missing leg, always something missing in the eyes.

He began closing up when footsteps approached from behind.

A soldier, his body intact, but like the rest, something was absent in his gaze.

"What can this old man do for you?" the vendor asked. "You’ll have to make do with fruit that’s gone slightly off. Haven’t had fresh stock in some time."

The man shook his head, pulled an envelope and a parcel from his coat, then tipped his hat as the vendor accepted them before walking away.

The vendor sat on the sidewalk, set the parcel aside, and opened the letter.

How are you doing, old man? I hope you’re well. I’ve been doing grand, all things considered. You might be wondering when I’d learn to write. I hadn’t. My friend here is writing what I speak. Things are rough where I am, but I have all my pieces. We’re in a town—or what was a town. Now it’s mostly rubble. There’s a tree here, though, with the shiniest red apples I ever did see, and they’re sweet enough to hurt. They made me think of home. When the war’s over, or when they’re done with me here, I’ll bring a pair, and we’ll eat like we used to. I hear y’all haven’t been getting fresh fruit at home. I hope this one lasts the journey. If I don’t make it back... well. I’ll get one to you anyhow.

He stared at the paper, rereading it a few times before finally taking up the parcel. He held it for a long moment before finding the courage to open it.

Inside lay the shiniest red apple he’d ever seen—so sweet it hurt.

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