It is commonly said by farmers, that a good pear or apple costs no more time or pains to rear, than a poor one;
so I would have no work of art, no speech, or action, or thought, or friend, but the best.
-- Ralph Waldo Emerson
oOoOoOo
Ed zigzags between market stalls like an oriole; Winry follows sedately, favoring her aching feet. "Hey, apples!" he calls, and while he investigates the barrel, she counts the months since she last baked a pie, or cooked anything more complicated than a boiled egg on her (clandestine) hot plate.
"That's five cens, mac."
Winry looks up to see Ed scraping the coins from his pocket, an apple plugging his mouth boar's-head fashion. He bolts half the fruit at once before noticing her smile. "What?" he asks mushily, cheeks stuffed with pulp.
"Nothing," she answers, selecting an apple for herself.