A Measure of Perfection

A cluster of freshly gathered red apples rested in a wooden trencher upon the sill. Disorderly. Ill-considered. I approached them with deliberate composure, extending a hand to inspect each curve and blemish. Most were flawed—asymmetrical rinds, uneven stems, unworthy of note. Yet beneath the unruly pile, one solitary specimen revealed pristine balance. I nudged the unrefined fruit aside, rolling the selected sphere into the center of the sill. A polished silver hand mirror lay nearby; I angled its face until the morning glow bathed the crimson rind in sharp, flawless symmetry. Order, at last, restored.