He never could find a reasonable explanation for why the wax fruit suddenly appeared on his table that Sunday morning, yet there it was.
All the doors were locked. The windows were closed. There were no signs of forced entry. Yet when he awoke, there in the center of his kitchen table, was a bowl of wax fruit.
Odder still, whoever had left the fruit had used one of his bowls. Not a fancy, for-decoration-only bowl. Not a family heirloom. Just a regular mixing bowl from the cupboard.
He wondered if he should notify the police, but considered how ridiculous it would sound. They'd likely dismiss it as some sort of prank. After all, wasn't that how he himself was considering the act? Yet it still troubled him that someone, somehow, had infiltrated both his building's security system and his apartment door to leave a gift of dubious value and even more dubious meaning.
Did the colors impart some sort of clue? Was the yellow banana accusing him of being a coward, or the red apple suggesting a passionate advance on the part of the gift giver? Was there some symbolism in the obvious artificiality of the fruit, or in a gift of fruit itself? Was it sign of affection, or a warning of future harm to befall him?
He carefully examined each individual piece, trying to find some clue leading to its origin or manufacturer, but they had been stripped of any identifying characteristics. Where did anyone even find wax fruit in this day and age?
Who would leave such a gift? How did it get there? What did it mean?
Three days later, responding to a concerned call from his co-workers, his landlord and a policeman entered his apartment. They found him sitting at his kitchen table, dressed in his bathrobe, his Sunday paper beside him, unread, with a cold cup of coffee set in front of him, staring with glazed eyes at a bowl of wax fruit.
What, they wondered incredulously, could a man find so endlessly fascinating about a bowl of wax fruit?
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