It was wonderful from start to finish. Michael made me dinner. He kept pouring the wine and I kept sipping. Sipped a little too much. Just enough to get a buzz without getting silly.

He grinned at me after we finished eating, choosing an apple from the basket on the table, biting into the flesh with his white, even teeth. I thought about what his mouth would taste like as I watched him chew crisp fruit, his face so contented.

"Do you want a bite? " he asked. " Are you still hungry?"

I shook my head. No, my love. I am not hungry for apples.

There was no way I was driving home, he said, with that gleam in his eyes as he dropped the half finished fruit into his plate. He led me by my hand up to the loft and his big bed with the down comforter and the heaven soft mattress.

It is lovely being here with him. I watch him now as he sleeps off the aftermath of our lovemaking thinking of kisses that tasted like apples. He has been asleep for hours.

I scribble these words on a pad I found in his desk. I am wearing his robe and it smells of his shampoo and his skin. I wrap my bare toes around the legs of the chair, wishing to return to him, to touch that perfect face with my fingers, my mouth. But he's so peaceful and untroubled. I have no wish to disturb the dream that makes his face seem so young and innocent, his body so relaxed.

He has commandeered the bed again, moving to the middle, spread out on his back, one well turned leg outside the blankets, naked to the waist, one hand flat on his bare chest, the other palm up behind his head. I don't think I have ever seen a man so magnificent. Sometimes I can't believe my good fortune.

Is it good fortune for me? At his expense? I think of what he has lost so that we could find each other. My heart sinks and my breath catches.

I am thinking of my dream, the one I just had, a strange dream, so intense and real that I remember almost every moment. When my dreams are like that, I can't return to sleep. I felt the need to write this one down.

It started with apples. Crisp, fall ones, not shiny and waxed like grocery store apples, but hazy, green tinged, newly picked by my own hands. And pears, yellow and bursting with juice, their skins bumpy and dented. Sweet and tart, the scent wafting up to me, mixing with the perfume of spicy mums, carnations and tea scented pink roses. The wasps hover over the fruit, waiting, their ominous drone filling my ears.

I am polishing the apples. I look up and he is there. I know I'm the same, but he is different. So young, so heartbreakingly handsome. I think we are about the same age rather than ten years apart.

I have never seen eyes so sad. Eyes that rich colour should be crinkling up in a smile. I know him well because he often stops here at the market near the university. Sometimes he buys a peach or an apple. Several weeks ago, the first time I talked to him, he bought a handful of bright cherries, the last, the ripest of the season.

He is carrying a cello case, battered, covered in stickers. He asks if my cherries are sweet. I am so startled by the musical cadence of his voice and the beauty of his face, the sun glinting in the red of his brown hair, that I can't answer for a moment.

"Sweet? The cherries? Oh, yes, They are sweet." I blush. It is a cool day but I feel suddenly hot. I feel as if my old clothes do not fit across my breasts.

I stand and look at him, just stare. He stares back at me. And then his hand goes to my hair just above my ear.

"A wasp," he says. "I didn't want it to bite you." The wasp flies off to inspect the grapes.

I nod my thanks. A rich boy like him would never look twice at me even though people tell me I'm pretty. I don't have the time for prettiness.

He grins.

"Try one," I say, handing him a large cherry, the colour of rich burgundy wine. He gives me a fleeting, boyish grin, biting into the fruit, his full bottom lip stained with cherry juice. My heart starts to hammer in my chest. I long to kiss the bright stain from his lips. He spits the pit out, breaking the spell he has cast. He's good at it, the stone flying a long way.

"Is it good? " I asked, laughing.

"Very. Chantal will like these. She likes cherries."

Chantal. Who is she? Some beautiful girl, I've no doubt, with a lovely name. She'll be small and dark, her head barely reaching his shoulder as they walk from class to class. Her plaid skirt flapping against her slender legs. I haven't been to school in years. I have to work for a living.

I don't know why he explains. It's as if he has read my mind. " My sister. Her name is Chantal. She likes cherries." He picks up his cello and smiles again. The smile is hesitant. A man so handsome should not be so shy. " The cherries are good. Very sweet."

I put a few extra in the bag. Somehow I'm overwhelmed with delight. I think I must be under a spell. I know I love him. I don't even know him but I love him.

Our fingers brush over the paper bag. "What's your name?" he asks.

"Nikita."

"My name is Michel. I have to go Nikita. I'll see you again soon. "

He comes back the next day and I'm thinking that it is too good to be true. I had hoped, prayed he would come again. I dressed this morning in a clean apron. I went to bed in braids so my hair would be thick and waved. I wear lipstick and mascara for a change, hoping he'd notice.

He isn't alone. There is a man with him. He must be twenty five or six. He's thin and blonde and he's a flirt. He whistles and says; " You're right, Michel. I think I have just found a reason to eat better food. The peaches are very ripe here." Michel blushes, his eyes apologetic.

There is something about the man I don't like. I've seen him before in the park next to the market making speeches. I don't want Michel to be friends with him. I don't like his orations. His calls for revolution and agitation. I don't want Michel to be swept up by his words, his seductive rhetoric, his anger.

"Chantal liked the cherries," Michel says softly. He choses two bright apples and hands them to me.

"I'm glad."

"I've seen you before. My name is Rene Dian," the blonde man says. "You've worked here a long time?"

"Since my grandfather retired." I lower my eyes. My tone is sharp, brittle.

"Ah, she's not interested in me. It's you she likes, Michel." He laughs. "He's too shy, Nikita. Don't hang your heart at him. Come, Michel. We don't want to be late for the meeting."

Michel nods. His cheeks are red. "See you soon, Nikita. " Rene is walking away, chewing his apple. Michel looks toward him and then back at me. "You look beautiful today. I hope you don't mind me saying that."

I forget to give him his change, I'm so stunned.

He comes again on a Sunday. He looks sad, like he's been crying. My heart aches for him and I don't know why. He has a little girl with him. She's around eleven or twelve, darker than him, her eyes a deep hazel, the colour of a mossy river bank. She is arguing with him as they approach. "I don't want to go. Why do we always have to visit their graves? Mommy is dead. I just want to forget."

"We can't forget. We can never forget." He looks at me and shakes his head. Today there is no smile. He is dressed in a dark suit. The cuffs are a little short. He looks stiff, unhappy. "Hello, Nikita."

"Hello, Michel."

"I'd like some of the pink carnations."

I hand him some roses. A dozen. Pink. Long stems. "Take them. I forgot to give you your change last time you came."

"Oh," He takes them from my hand. His eyes search my face. "Thanks." The little girl tugs at his hand. He shrugs and follows her before she gets lost in the crowd.

I saw Rene last week. I don't trust him. I have heard rumours of the protest march. Some of the students talk of it. The Bloody Hour has arranged it.

I have not seen Michel in a month. That's not exactly true. I have seen him walking past the market. He doesn't come to the market lately. Soon it will be time to close the stand. I will have to go back to working at the caf‚ again. I don't want to do it. I want to see Michel again. I polish the apples and arrange them in rows.

I walk down to the river after work. I sit on the bench and watch the lovers stroll by, arm in arm. I think about Michel and wish that he was not involved with Rene. I think about us walking hand in hand. I think about cherry sweet lips kissing me.

I worry about him. The worry makes my teeth clench. There have been rumours that The Bloody Hour has been using bombs, that one of them was set at the dean's home. A gardener was almost killed. Nothing can be proven, yet. I think Rene will slip up. He is not as good as he thinks.

"Nikita?"

I look up. It's as if my thoughts have conjured him. His hair is longer, to his shoulders in russet tinged waves over the white muffler he wears around his neck. His jeans are faded. There is a hole in one knee. Like the jeans, his leather jacket is worn. He's very fashionable for an anarchist, I think, too romantic. His cowboy boots are fashionable, too. I look down at my wool pea coat and my sad looking shoes. "It's getting so cold now," he says. "May I sit with you? "

"Yes." He sits and I feel the warmth of his body.

It is absolute. I love him.

"How are you, Nikita ?"

"Sad," I say. "I have to close the stand tomorrow until spring."

"I'll miss you."

I swallow hard and look away from him. "I'm sorry about your mother."

"Thank you. My father died, too. It was a car accident. A man who was drunk hit their car. A diplomat. They didn't press charges against him. My sister spent a month in the hospital."

"I'm sorry."

His tone is dull, bitter. I think: No wonder he is angry. No wonder he is with Rene.

He seems nervous. He twists the edges of the muffler in his slender fingers. He has an artist's hands. I think about him making bombs.

I think about what it might be like to have his hands on me, touching me. My face, my shoulders, my breasts. "You seem to have more on your mind. Does it have anything to do with Rene Dian?"

He frowns. "Perhaps. I have to meet them tonight. We have things to do. Something will happen soon. I was on my way there when I saw you. I don't know why, I don't really know you, but I thought" He broke off.

"You thought? "

"I looked at you and I thought that perhaps what I was on my way to do wasn't so important after all. That I'd rather be talking to you. "

I bit my lip. "I'm glad. You're having second thoughts about Rene? About the Bloody Hour."

"Maybe. It's confusing. My life was so empty when I met him. I was full of hate. It seemed to fit. It seemed right and now lately, I don't know. Maybe I've turned a corner. Maybe there's more than I thought. Maybe it all isn't so bleak after all. I thought my world had all died with them, my parents."

"There could be more. More than what Rene tells you, Michel"

"Do you think so? I believe in what he's doing. There has to be a change."

"Change can be made in other ways. Ways that people don't get hurt. Like what happened last week."

He nodded and closed his eyes. When he opened them, they were wet with tears. "Rene is counting on me."

"So is Chantal. She needs you."

"She is a handful, my little sister. It's as if you know that something will go wrong tomorrow."

"Something always does, eventually, in Rene's line of work. What will happen to her if they arrest you, put you in prison? Think about that, Michel." It is late. I don't want to leave him but I have a life too. Responsibilities. I know that I have to get back before they impound my grandfather's truck. I can't afford the fines. "You have a lot to offer the world, Michel. If you're locked away or dead..." The thought of that makes my throat ache.

"If you do this you'll never know if there is love to be found in this world. You may never know if you could have found yourself, found out what you were meant to do. " I can't speak any more. There are tears in his eyes and I can't keep my voice steady. "I have to go now. Come by the market tomorrow, Michel. I'll save my best apple for you. Come at closing. I'll take you home and make you dinner. I'm a good cook."

He says nothing.

Don't let them use you, Michel. Don't go with them. Come to me instead. I repeated it like a litany. Over and over. Polishing that shiny red apple I have chosen on my green apron. The best, the sweetest of the new season.

Come to me instead, Michel.

It is getting dark, the sun is setting earlier. He isn't coming. He has gone with them, the Bloody Hour. I slip off my apron, tears welling in my eyes. I crouch down, reaching under the counter for the metal money box and my bag.

"I assume this is the apple. The best and the shiniest one you have left. The last one."

I rise to my feet. Michel is smiling at me, holding the fruit in his hand.

Tears well in my eyes. My vision blurs. "Yes. Take a bite. It's very sweet. Life is sweet, Michel."

He bites it. Chews. A little juice is spattered on his lip. He licks it with a flick of his pink tongue. He smiles at me. A smile full of promise and joy and I hope, love. "Yes. Life is sweet, Nikita. What about that dinner you promised me? "

I woke then. This is where I must finish writing.

"Nikita?" He called me from the bed. "What are you doing?"

"Couldn't sleep."

I set down my pen. I went to the bed, leaving his robe at the foot. He gathered me into his arms, his skin smooth and sleepy warm against mine. His closeness made me want to cry, bury my face in his hard shoulder and sob.

He sensed it, my sadness. " What is it, love? "

"Have you ever thought about what might have happened if you had never met, Rene?" I skimmed the smooth wall of his chest with my palm.

"Yes. I have thought of that. "

"If you had never gone that night, you might still be with your sister. You might be happy, Michael. Married. You might be teaching music or "

"I don't think about that, Nikita. What might have been."

"No. But you'd be happy, Michael. Normal. "

"No one knows that. I am where I want to be now."

"Why?"

"Because I'm with you. If I hadn't met Rene, done the things I did, I wouldn't have found you. Go to sleep, Nikita."

He tucked my head beneath his chin. I closed my eyes and sighed, feeling his heart pound steadily beneath my cheek.

Life is sweet, I thought, as sleep took me.

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