'An apple cake for Anthea' by Cole Beauchamp

Select three apples to replicate the flavours of your friend. A Braeburn for her crisp elegance, a Gala for sweetness, a Granny Smith for tart originality. 

Peel the apples slowly with a paring knife, long spirals that end all too soon. Fifty-two. It’s no age. 

Should you encounter a bruise, do not cut it out. She was so good at embracing imperfection. It’s how your friendship started, in those rollercoaster years of childrearing, bare-knuckled, no pretense. It’s how your friendship survived the distance after she moved. 

Core the apples. Set them in a bowl of water with a twist of lemon. 

Beat eggs and sugar with the violence of sudden loss. Crack in eggs. No need to separate the wistfulness of If Only whites, the runny yolk of Whys. 

Blend in flour, her jaunty fuchsia hat, the flashing neon karaoke, the stillness of a Sunday puzzle. Add a generous tablespoon of cinnamon. 

Slice the apples and arrange them in overlapping circles at the bottom of a springform. Debate whether spring and form are still possible for you in the shipwreck of grief. Pour the batter on top. 

Put your cake into an oven you’ve preheated to 180 degrees Celsius. 

Forgot to preheat the oven? Slump to the floor, amazed the ground still holds you. They say this time of stop start crashing wailing passes. 

Let the oven catch up. 

Cook for forty minutes. Cook until you have wept yourself dry. Cook until you can say her name without drowning. Cook until you don’t want to kill all the people you don’t love who are still alive. 

Compost the apple cores, the apple peel, the eggshells. Lose nothing. 

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Cole Beauchamp is a queer writer based in London. Her stories have been in the Wigleaf Top 50, nominated for Pushcart and Best Microfictions, and shortlisted for the Bath, Bridport, Oxford and WestWord prizes. She lives with her girlfriend and has two children. Find her on bluesky at @nomad-sw18.bsky.social