The Orchard Weekend – Part 1: Picking

"Don't shake the tree," said Dana.

"I'm not shaking it."

"You're shaking it."

"I'm encouraging it."

The orchard stretched in neat rows up a golden hill, apples glowing red and gold among the leaves. The air smelled of cider and woodsmoke. It was a bright October Saturday, and they were the only two people on the hillside.

She was forty, a copy editor, in a cable-knit sweater and borrowed boots. He was forty-three, a high-school teacher, in a battered plaid jacket, with an easy grin and a basket in each hand. They had left their two kids with her sister and driven two hours north with a playlist and a map.

"Apple picking," said Ben, "is the most romantic activity in America."

"It's mostly climbing ladders."

"That's the romance."

They picked in the sun, filling baskets, biting into crisp sweet apples straight from the branch. Dana climbed the ladder and Ben held it, his hand on her calf, and she laughed down at him with the sky behind her. The orchard dog trotted past with a stick.

At noon they ate sandwiches under an old tree, watching leaves spiral down.

"Can I ask you something?" said Dana.

"Yes."

"When did we last do something just for fun?"

"The wedding," said Ben. "No, wait, that was stressful."

"Honeymoon."

"Honeymoon."

"Eleven years."

"That's bad," he said, quietly. "We should fix that."

He took her hand across the picnic blanket and kissed her knuckles. She felt her chest soften.

"Green?" she said, the old word.

"Green," said Ben. "Very green. Let's bake a pie."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Cobbler.