I was thinking of an apple when I noticed the street and I stopped and placed my foot on the lip of the curb and fell and I saw the streetcar right in front of me and I'm run over.

An apple. It was in a vendor's stall at the farmers' market off Powell. I'd noticed it because it was so weirdly out of place, a defiant crimson McIntosh in an army of dull green Granny Smiths. When you die—and I realize this as I am crushed by the wheels—you should be thinking about love. If not love, at the very least you should be counting up your sins or wondering why you didn't cross at the light. But you should not be thinking about an apple. I register the brakes screeching and the horrified cries after the bus ran over me. I listen as my bones splinter and shatter. It's not an unpleasant sound, more delicate than I would have imagined. It reminds me of the bamboo wind chimes on our patio.

A thicket of legs encircles me. Between a bike messenger's ropy calves I can just make out the 30% OFF TODAY ONLY sign at Lady Foot Locker. I should be thinking about love right now—not apples, and certainly not girls' feet—and then I stop thinking altogether because I can't breathe.