I step in, fetching change out of my pocket for the dreaded Coke machine. The Celtic Queen stands at a table, cutting an apple.
“Hi John!” she says. “Would like some apple?”
“Sure,” I say and snag piece. Munch, munch. I fetch the Coke and finish off my piece of the apple.
“Hey, wait a second,” I say, about to leave. “Is there some kind of symological significance to you giving me an apple and me eating it?”
“Could be,” she says with a smile.
“Man!” I walk out of the kitchen. “I hate it when that happens.”