“Do you like apples?”

In early February, while attending a professional conference for phlebologists in Copenhagen, Denmark, a thin-boned American boy with rudy cheeks and an eye for colorful pants, came running up to me and asked me a question that changed my life.

I was not ready for this question, which seemed simple at the time, but now haunts my waking life. The significance of this encounter tortures me to this very day.

"Do you like apples?" he asked.

Before I had processed this existential question, I couldn't help but notice that the boy's hair was curiously sculpted, with blondish curls on tips of his jet-black hair. His singular lanky long arm was stretching outward, with what appeared to be a spherically shaped Canadian Gala Apple in his well-manicured hand.

"Do you like apples?" he asked yet again. The question echoed in my brain, repeating itself with an ever-increasing volume. I looked at the boy with stunned ferocity, silently watching, as he slightly shook this abundantly red fruit in my general direction.

"What do you mean, do I like apples?" I finally manged to utter a high-pitched staccato screech directly at the boy, trying to curtail my inner rage. Of course, as you'd expect, the boy recoiled when confronted with my unusual reply, and quickly shoved the object back into his impeccably sewn light blue denim jeans.

And then, just as soon as this boy had suddenly first appeared, he had vanished into crowd of the well-attended conference, and completely disappeared from my view. I never was to see that lanky American boy again.

Oh God! "DO YOU LIKE APPLES?". It's such a loaded question! What could that preteen have meant? Was he sent by someone? The government? A jealous phlebologist? I just wish I had handled the situation better than I had. I just wan't ready to explore this unbelievably complex question.

After all, can anybody really answer this, with any degree of certainty...

I mean "Do you like apples?"

See... This question is much harder than you think.