Author: Josh Price
A loud crash woke Eve. She shook Adam and he rolled over, blinking, sleepy.
“Did you hear?”
He shook his head.
“There was a crash.”
Scowling, he nodded his head like he understood, but wouldn’t remember anything later. He could sleep through the beginning of the world.
The first tendrils of light were snaking their way into the garden, shining on tree leaves, illuminating the path leading to the gates in soft, warm glow. Eve knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep now, so she got up to investigate.
No one said they couldn’t go outside the gates, they just never did. The only rule was: don’t eat the fruit from the tree. She stood up, nudging Adam with her foot, smirking as he grumbled and rolled over.
Walking along the path, she made her way to the north edge of the garden—the sun warming her by the time she reached the gates.
She pushed them open, they made no noise.
She looked at the vast expanse of flatland outside the walls and felt very small; she had forgotten they persuaded themselves all that existed was Eden.
Eve looked south, seeing something she didn’t recognize. She walked toward it. The object was translucent and spherical, buried in a long trail in the dirt. It had come from the sky.
She stood before the sphere and it pulsed once; flashing red. Jumping back, she let out a fearful cry.
The sphere pulsed again—deeper red this time. She turned and ran back to the garden to wake Adam. She wanted him to see. When they got back to the sphere, it was completely deflated; a long tear across its surface.
“What do you think it is?” Eve asked.
“I don’t know,” Adam said.
“Do you think this is how we got here?” She asked, but Adam just stared at her.
“Let’s go back,” he said.
Eve didn’t know how she’d come to be, couldn’t remember. Adam said she was made from him, but she didn’t trust his memory either.
Adam was content to do nothing. She would go out of her mind if she stayed in this garden her whole life. Wasn’t there more than this? She didn’t know.
Later, she was standing by the tree, thinking about Adam, bored by his disinterest. Yet, she loved him, her love fueled her curiosity. Her curiosity was love.
Adam was approaching, staring at the tree, something different in his eyes. Eve felt excitement rushing through her. She wanted more of this curious Adam.
“You ever wish he’d just tell us?” He asked.
“Yeah, of course. Do you?”
“Not until today,” Adam said.
“What’s come over you?” Eve asked.
“Do it Eve; take one.”
She asked him: “Why me?”
Adam looked away, a flicker of hatred in his eyes.
Eve stomped over and plucked an apple from the tree.
“Here, you eat it,” she said.
He took the apple, bit it. Adam grabbed Eve and pulled her close, kissed her too hard, shoving the bit of apple into her mouth with his tongue.
Furious, she chewed it up and she swallowed it—daring him.
“Coward,” she hissed. Adam’s eyes turned red, smoke billowing from his mouth and racing through the air, serpentine. Eve chased the smoke to Eden’s gates—out to the deflated sphere near the east wall.
Pulsing red the smoke entered the flaccid skin, filling it whole again. For the first time, she realized she was naked.
“What are you?” she asked. But she already knew.