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Apple Chopped
Apple Chopped
Kristine Mahan / Spoon
This article is written by a student writer from the Her Campus at UC Berkeley chapter.

We used to dip potato wedges 

in melted malt shakes. 

Spent after schools sprawled 

on long stem grass blades.

Filled empty car seats 

with our bodies wrapped in each other. 

At seventeen, it’s always one tight dress over the other. 

Tripping over my own wedges,

I bring you home because more filled seats

at the dinner table makes my mama happy. She shakes

memories of her messy marriage from her memory bank. Like new blades 

on a knife, we cut tension with our laughter. Sprawled 

on the living room rug, bellies full. Sprawled 

between my flannel sheets. Empty house. We fit into each other. 

I rub my hand across your cheek, feel the stubble that your razor blade

left behind. A sad thought wedges 

itself into my brain. At seventeen, every sad thought shakes 

you and the little house of cards you’ve built with your emotions. We find seats 

in the back of the movie theater, but I make sure the popcorn bin divides our seats

because I’m not that kind of girl. I don’t need my legs sprawled 

in the corner of a dim-lit room. No need to spill our malt shakes 

on the already sticky floor. I just want to whisper top-tier commentary with each other. 

We both think consumerism wedges 

its way into every film these days. Close-ups of Martha Stewart kitchen blades 

that you can buy on Amazon after the end credits. At seventeen, blades 

never lead to happy endings. We’re the last people to leave our seats 

because you’re convinced every director wedges 

an end-credit scene in the final minutes of every movie. You’re wrong. Popcorn kernels sprawled 

across my lap. They bounce off each other 

as they hit the floor. You squeeze my hand because you know how it shakes

when I’m in public. Dressed in a Packers Christmas sweater, you shake 

the box so hard it wakes the dog nuzzled between my thighs. I shove a switchblade

in your hand because patience is not a virtue and I know no other 

human knows you better than I do. You take a seat

while shreds of wrapping paper are left sprawled 

between carpet fringe. Box open, you thank God it’s not another middle-aged man golf wedge —

Now, when someone shakes 

my hand, I think of empty car seats. 

Long for afternoons blanketed in shredded grass blades. 

Seventeen, head buried in your chest, arms and legs sprawled. 

Now we’re foreign to each other, 

sharing nothing more than potato wedges.