White Apples by Jonathan Carroll

her mouth. Without question Isabelle was the slowest eater he had ever known. It was a running joke between them. She used to say she could go to a restaurant half an hour before him, order, and start eating. Chances were he would still finish before her.
    But those hours spent over meals together were some of the greatest times of his life. All the things they'd discussed, the jokes, the great and small anecdotes that described and highlighted their lives to each other. Once in the OXO Tower restaurant in London she stood up in the middle of their meal, came around the table, kissed him on the lips, and said in a lewd voice, "I love this. I love this more than anything." And he knew what she meant. He knew one hundred percent what she meant by it. Two feet away the view out the window was of all London, glittering. This woman was a city in herself—teeming, confusing, exhilarating, sometimes one big traffic jam.
    Ettrich closed his eyes when he felt tears coming. Isabelle could do that to him so quickly and easily. Sometimes he only had to look across a table at her and he would feel them begin. Was that what real love meant—tears? Such promiscuous things—they came when you were happy and sad, but for Vincent Ettrich only when it had to do with this woman.
    How long did he close his eyes, four seconds? Long enough to touch his thumb against one eye, his index finger against the other to push the tears back. In that momentary dark he heard a familiar sound—the thin tinkle of a small bell. Opening his eyes, he saw he was back in the diner with Isabelle, far away from Vienna, Berndt, and Anjo the dog. She was holding up that bell and grinning.
    "Did you order spaghetti al pesto?" "What?"
    Her smile was a mischievous child's. "At Stella Marina. That's your favorite meal there. Did you order it?" "You know where I was just now?"
    "Sure. You watched Berndt and me in Stella Marina."
    His head dropped back, he locked his fingers behind his neck and looked at the ceiling while he spoke. "Are you going to explain all this to me, Fizz?"
    She didn't answer. He continued looking up and she continued not answering. The silence between them wasn't uncomfortable be•cause it was intermission. They both knew the next act was coming.
    "Anjo told me you were sick that same night. It was one of the first times he ever talked to me. He said you had cancer and were going to die. But that you didn't know it yet."
    "You knew I was sick before I did?" He lowered his head slowly and looked at her. His eyes were flat. All that she had said was history but in his heart it felt like right now.
    "Yes, I knew, Vincent. Everything Anjo told me came true." "A dog told you my future."
    She shook her head. "Anjo isn't a dog. He's whatever he wants to be, whatever is convenient for him. He goes in and out of things—animals, people. He has that power."
    "Who is he?"
    She shook her head again. "He's our son. More than that I don't know. He won't tell me." Ettrich looked out the window and then back at her. "Did he make me sick?"
    "Oh no, Vincent! Anjo brought you back from the dead."

A Frog Ballet

    Fifteen minutes after Berndt fled the restaurant, Isabelle walked out of Stella Marina smelling her hand. Before leaving, she had taken the small flacon of Royal Water she always carried in her purse and tipped some of it onto the back of her wrist. After what had just happened, she needed to smell Vincent's beautiful cologne. What she really needed was to smell Vincent but that was impossible. The Royal Water would have to suffice. She needed him there after what had just happened. But even his smell did something good for her; that small trace of him brought her a piece of peace. It never failed—some drops on the back of her hand, close the eyes, deep breath—Vincent.
    Where was he now? What was he doing? She wondered that ten times a day. She thought about him twenty. More.
    Did he hate her for running away again? He had every right to hate her,