The Taste of Apple Seeds by Katharina Hagena

bottle of wine from Hinnerk’s supply in the cellar. Although he was a landlord’s son, he didn’t know much about wine. In the village pub they drank mainly beer. He bought wine whenever he thought he had found a particularly good bargain, preferring sweet to dry, and white to red. Mira drank only dark red, almost black wine. But the cellar was full of bottles and Rosmarie always found a dark one.
    I didn’t drink with them. Alcohol made me stupid. Blacking out, shutting down, unconsciousness—I knew about all the terrible things that could happen when drinking. And I hated it when Rosmarie and Mira drank wine. When they became loud and laughed excessively, it was as if a huge television screen had appeared between us. Through the glass I could watch my cousin and her friend as though I were watching a nature documentary about giant spiders with the sound turned off. Without the sober commentary of the narrator these creatures were repulsive, alien and ugly.
    Mira and Rosmarie never noticed anything; their spiders’ eyes glassed over and they seemed to find my fixed stare amusing. I always stayed a little longer than I could actually bear and then I would get up stiffly and go indoors. Never since had I felt as lonely as on those steps with the two spider girls.
    When Bertha was with us she would drink, too. Rosmarie would pour the wine for her, and as Bertha always forgot whether she had drunk one or three glasses she always held out her glass for more. Or she helped herself. Her words would then get muddled, she would laugh, her cheeks would turn pink. Mira was restrained when Bertha was there, maybe out of respect, but perhaps also because of her mother. It was well known that Frau Ohmstedt liked her drink. Once Bertha had nodded to us and said what she always said: “The apple never falls far from the tree.” Mira turned pale, took the glass she was just about to sip from and emptied it into the roses.
    Rosmarie encouraged Bertha to have a drink, perhaps because it gave her a better excuse to drink herself. But it was also true when she said, “Drink, Grandma, then you won’t have to cry so much.”
    Bertha drank wine with us on the steps for only one summer. Soon afterward she became too restless to sit anywhere for long, and by the end of the following summer Rosmarie was dead.
    The sun was lower, my glass was empty. Now that I was here I could visit Mira’s parents and ask after their daughter. I hadn’t found out much from her brother.
    This time I didn’t turn into the village, but kept on going toward town. The doorbell still had the familiar minor-third ring from my childhood. The garden had become pretty wild, no longer the model of geometric topiary with its borders marked out in string. “Has your father been playing with your geometry set again?” Rosmarie would tease when Mira opened the door. Now the grass was tall, the hedges and trees hadn’t been pruned, not for a while.
    I suppose I ought to have guessed, but I was stunned when it was Max who opened the door. He was also astonished, briefly, but before I could say anything he smiled, took a step toward me, and looked genuinely pleased.
    “Iris, I’m glad you’re here. I wanted to pop by and see you today, anyway.”
    “Really?” Why was I shouting like that? Of course he had to come and see me, he was my lawyer after all.
    Max glanced at me uncertainly. “I mean, what a coincidence. In fact, I hadn’t planned to come and see you at all!”
    His smile narrowed.
    “No, no,” I said, “I don’t mean it like that. All I wanted to say was that I didn’t know you lived here. But now that you are here, of course I’ll take . . . erm . . . you.”
    Max raised his eyebrows. I cursed myself and felt my face turning red. Just as I was about to prepare my retreat with a witty remark, perhaps something along the lines of, “Erm, okay, I think I’ll leave,” Max said with a grin, “Really? You’ll take me? I’ve always wanted