Most holidaymakers were gone by now. They were back at their usual business of homemaking, money-making and lovemaking. They had left and with them, they took their children, screaming at the top of their lungs and peeing onto the sand. Their smoked fish consumed out of takeaway boxes on beach towels. Their dangerously red shoulders and long conversations about how best to prepare pickled cucumber. Their blasting, repetitive music. Music we hated.

But the beach wasn’t empty. It had been taken over by seagulls, sparrows and pigeons, noisy beings to whom this place rightfully belonged and who did not mind the cold and the wind.

The strandkorbs huddled together, their backs turned outwards, like penguins trying to keep warm. The pier was basking in the first timid rays of cold sunshine. It looked long, majestic and peaceful. Its large concrete pillars were resting after another long summer, having dutifully carried throngs and throngs of people strolling back and forth, above the sea.

The tree was still there. Growing on the sand dune, guarded by a fence. Its fruit remained untouched and unwanted. The upper branches yielded big, green apples, irregular and ripe. The lower branches seemed to belong to a different species. Their fruit was tiny and red, unshapely and shrunken. It resembled rose buds rather than apples, as if pre-empting the absent greediness of voracious holidaymakers.

The air was fresh. I could breathe, finally. My body longed for movement and exercise. I felt strong and ready. I jumped over the fence and landed on the sand. I stretched my arm up and picked a green apple. It felt cool and still in my hand. Like something I could hold on to.

I thought back to that night seasons and continents away.

That night I felt I would fall apart. The hottest night of the year, stuffy and sweaty, my mind sticky, my body swollen and heavy. Your body you had taken away.

Back then, I couldn’t sleep and felt restless. The sheets were burning underneath my stomach and my face was aching, pressed against the coarse fabric. The fan caressed my thighs with gusts of unwanted, hot air. I had to leave. In the middle of the night.

I could hear you breathe on the couch. I left the bed and tiptoed past you, anxious not to wake you.

The town was bustling, filled with fumes of laughter and alcohol. It was dark and loud. I walked towards the beach and reached the wooden outpost guarded by the apple tree. I lifted my body and sat on the upper ledge of the fence. I closed my eyes. The wood beneath my thighs felt cool and still. Like something to hold on to.

My heart was boiling. The lava within me was crawling up and clogging my throat. There was nowhere to go and nowhere to run. My body could not break a sweat. It never used its natural cooling system and just got hotter and hotter, until I was human no longer.

In the morning, you’d be gone. I would have to face the heat alone.

***

The breeze was pleasant. The apples cold and solid. I picked a few. I put them on the banister, one by one. They formed a neat line, their imperfection rhythmically punctuating the wood. The beach was calmly white. Sporadic joggers, dog owners and smokers traversed the sand, avoiding the water.

I climbed back up and jumped over the fence, ready to go home. I picked up my stolen goods. They barely fit in both my hands. Had you been here with me, I thought, we could have picked a few more.