by Julie Flattery
It was the fig tree she remembered the most. The way its leaves drew patterns all over their bodies when the sun hit it just right. It was mesmerizing. Like lace. The apple, she would later say, was just an aside. In fact, she had forgotten all about it until the trial. Before that day, it had seemed inconsequential.
And let’s just call an apple a snake because that’s what all of this was really about. Now she, and every other woman would be forever branded as a temptress — as though that made them the weaker sex. The most minute detail can change everything.
But about that snake…the idea that it was somehow separate from him still made her laugh. Oh yes, it had a voice of its own and it had been after her for days. She was curious. So, she gave in. Then she realized what she had been missing. But she still maintains that she had more power over him than he had over her. Trust her on that.
That apple from Eden’s garden paled in comparison as far as she was concerned. No wonder she had forgotten it. Prize tree my ass she said.
He willingly shared it with her, but later told the jury he was under her spell. That naked, she taunted him, which was bullshit because like she said, he had been after her for days.
The minute detail: a male judge. She stupidly believed in the system. And Adam—what a pawn. His attorney created a new picture for him, and he willingly adjusted his vision. A preview of coming attractions.
She freely admitted to the “crime” of the apple. Of course, she knew the rules. So why did she take that bite? Her attorney told her to blame the snake. It seemed as good a reason as any because, to tell the truth, she didn’t have an answer they would understand. What would you rather be, perfect or fallible? Which one is more exciting? The world should thank her, really.
But how can you explain this to people who put you on trial for eating a fucking apple?
She’s seen and heard every version of her story by now. Every comedy routine, porn film, slam poetry reading, and every religion’s alteration of it to suit their dogma. None of it is correct. The real story is pretty mundane. Just your average tale of sex, love, and betrayal with a predictable Hollywood ending where men come out on top.
But she would always remember looking down on him that day. And the way those fig leaves danced upon his skin.
Julie Flattery’s work has been published in various journals, including Atlas and Alice, Idle Ink, Red Fez, Emerge Literary Journal, and National FlashFiction Journal. Six of her plays have been performed at the iDiOM theater in Bellingham, WA. She writes professionally about architecture and building design. Follow her on Twitter @Julzywrites and Instagram @julieflattery.
