Rumble, young man.

Walking around, I was thinking about this story I know. It is of this one, where a lone apple tree grew just off the edge of his property. The boy never knew it was an apple tree, though, not for a long time because it looked like any sort of small tree--until it suddenly grew a single piece of fruit late one summer. He saw it for its new seeds, and saw the future beauty of stretching, unordered fields. But with this first bearing, all he could think of was to give it to the girl. So he picked it, and she liked it very much, loved it in fact, particularly its fresh crunch because it had no bruises. She told him that she detested bruises. And she was apologetically dissatisfied about there being only one apple. Perhaps if they encouraged the tree, they thought, and talked to it, then it might bloom a few more blossoms. They stood together and he stared at the tree into the deep night, stared so hard that he did not realize the early morning sun arriving. He blinked into its brightening, and looked around to see that the girl had slipped off in the dark. He saw the path she made through the pressed, dewy grass. She had left.

But when he looked up into the morning he saw a tree standing heavy with bright fruit. He gathered a bushel of them, all of them he could find, for her. They were her apples. He followed her path, through forests and then fields and then mountains, and he brought them to her. He reached her at last, maybe because he should have or maybe because she let him. But somehow, by the time he brought them to her they were no good. Not only had they been jostled as he travelled, but one old rotter that had been forgotten to be chucked out was stinking in the bottom of her basket. He didn't see it when he packed, and didn't think it existed among so many new ones. It did, and she found it, and then found all the others rotten and bruised as well. He tried to show her two apples that were still good to share, but she wanted neither and turned. Detracted and embarrassed, he left too, was made to leave before he could show her that not every apple was ruined. All of them in the bushel were tumbled and scattered across the hard ground--but alone now and standing in the sun, he reached inside his collar. He had still kept one safe in his coat, for just in case.