Slices

She put down the knife, satisified. There were exactly five - apple slices, that is. It was the only way she could eat, in precise and therefore uncontaminated quantities. Each food conveyed a different number to her. Apples screamed five, oranges a scant three (the rest of the fruit discarded), hard-boiled eggs four at a time. Her meals consisted only of the types of food that had clear demarcations, where you could definitely know a finite item had been consumed. Salads were her worst nightmare. Just seeing the uncontained chaos of ingredients, entwining and overlapping with one another, nearly made her scream. So she avoided places she might encounter those demons, or any other inflammatory and anxiety-inducing food amalgamations. That's how her world had shrunk to her small apartment, this meticulously organized kitchen. Picking up one crisp piece of the apple, she bit down, relishing the clean sensation.