Love Bites

You and I liked green apples better than red ones. Our favourite green apples were called “Love Bites”. I was always buying them and bringing them to your house. In the mornings, whoever got out of bed first would go cut up an apple then bring it back for us to share. We would then stay in bed talking for at least another hour, the sun pouring straight through your curtains.

The Halloween party was at your house. I dressed as the Virgin Mary and you were a milkmaid. We didn’t eat any apples. We drank and danced together all night, to all of our shared songs: “Wild Girl”, “The Prettiest Virgin”, “Just Friends”. We collapsed on the couch around midnight, my legs in your lap. You ran your hands up and down my calves and I played with your hair. Nobody paid much attention: they knew we were best friends. You sprayed fake blood on my neck not long before everyone went to bed, and I shrieked without really caring.

When I saw myself in the mirror the next morning, it looked like I had been attacked by a vampire. The fake blood had stained like a rash, drawing attention to the purple, speckled bite marks on my collarbone and neck. You apologised for both the blood and the bites. I grinned at you: “Don’t apologise.” We went to the beach with your flatmates that day, and I didn’t even try to cover the love bites up. I wore them like rare jewels; I wanted people to notice. I wanted people to wonder about them, about me, about you. Every now and then I would get a flashback from the night before and find myself smiling or shaking my head. Even after we all swum in the ocean, I could still smell your smell in my hair. You and your flatmate went to the supermarket and brought back strawberries, a pineapple, a pear. All the apples were red.

Joy Holley

Joy Holley lives in Wellington and is currently studying for her Masters in fiction at the IIML. Her writing has been published in Starling, Sport, Stasis and other New Zealand journals.