EPISODE 9 - I WANT TO SIN
- Enzo
- Jan 25
- 4 min read
Updated: Feb 3
SONG
LYRICS
He stood before me, distance thin
He said, "I dreamed a stranger's sin."
"You begged for apples on your knees
I fed you under mighty trees."
He dreamt what I could never say
Of my hunger that never faded
He dreamt of me, I'm sure he knew
The apple burned between us two
The dream was heat beneath my skin
The fruit, the ache, the will to sin
I want to sin, i want to sin
I want the apple, let me sin
I am that dream, it's really me
I want the apple, let me sin
The air was heat, his chest was bare
The sunlight fell across his hair
I saw a pearl trace down his side
My hunger grew, I couldn't hide
His voice was calm, his gaze was fire
He spoke of dreams that still conspire
He smiled, "Let's go, the day is done,"
We packed the fruit and faced the sun
The dream was heat beneath my skin
The fruit, the ache, the will to sin
I want to sin, i want to sin
I want the apple, let me sin
I am that dream, it's really me
I want the apple, let me sin
He dreamt of me, my pulse obeyed
And in his dream my truth was laid
STORY
EPISODE 9 – I WANT TO SIN
Giorgio stood in front of me.
Not close enough to touch me.
Not far enough for me not to smell his enveloping, unmistakably male scent.
The air had cooled a little by then, yet it still felt too hot, as if it had stored our closeness all day long. The sun was low, its light falling at an angle through the olive leaves and settling on his skin. I watched his bare chest rise and fall, calm. And yet there was something unspoken in that calm, something held back in his expression.
“Thanks for waiting,” he said. “I had to sleep for a bit. The heat was unbearable today.”
He studied me for a moment.
“Were you able to rest at all?”
“No,” I said. “I don’t take siestas. In New York, you don’t do that.”
I hesitated, then added, more honestly than I intended:
“I enjoyed the view instead.”
“That makes me happy.”
His voice sounded normal. Perhaps too normal.
“I had a strange dream,” he said then.
His tone was calm, but beneath it was something unsettled, as if the dream were still occupying him.
“Do you like my apples?” he asked.
The question was harmless.
And at the same time, it wasn’t.
My gaze slipped from his face for just a moment, drifting involuntarily to the center of his body, then returned, as if I’d caught myself. I nodded. My mouth was dry.
He took half a step closer, not pressing, not demanding, but as if he wanted to tell me something meant only for me.
“I dreamed…” he began slowly.
“We were together on the part of my land where the apple trees stand. You were there in my dream too. You…”
He hesitated.
“You were on your knees.”
He paused briefly, as if testing how I would react, whether I would interrupt him.
I didn’t.
On the contrary, I remained completely still.
“You asked me for my apples. Quite desperately. You liked them so much,” he said.
“And I gave them to you. Under the big trees.”
The words didn’t hit me like a blow. They sank in.
Deep.
Soundless.
I swallowed.
I saw the image before me.
Not exactly as he described it, but as it felt to me.
I was sitting.
But lower than him.
At the height one kneels when standing before another man.
I didn’t think of shame.
I thought of truth.
I am that dream, I thought.
Not because I wanted his sweet apples.
Not because I had really been on my knees.
But because that was exactly how I wanted to be seen.
My gaze traveled over him, without my being able to stop it.
Over his face, softened by the evening light, almost vulnerable.
Over his neck, tightening with every breath.
Over his chest, still marked by the heat.
A single bead of sweat had gathered at his side and was slowly running down, as if following a line meant only for me.
“You were hungry,” he went on.
His voice was calm, but deeper now, as if shaped by what it carried.
“You couldn’t get enough.”
I felt my breathing change.
It grew shallow.
No—I could barely breathe at all at what I was hearing.
“‘Please, give me more,’ you said.”
In that moment I thought that maybe it hadn’t really been about apples in his dream.
But about another fruit.
His.
A forbidden one.
One whose name you did not speak.
There was no apple between us, and yet it was there—burning, invisible, unavoidable.
Adam and Eve came to mind. Not as a story, but as recognition.
I want to sin, I thought.
Giorgio looked at me as if he didn’t quite know what he was reading in my eyes—only that it was something he couldn’t ignore.
I lowered my gaze.
To his feet.
To his legs.
And then back to that bulge which had become the apple for me.
I want the apple, I thought.
Not to bite into it.
And yet to take it into my mouth.
To kiss it.
To recognize who I actually wanted to be.
“Come,” Giorgio said suddenly.
His voice was firm again, but not hard.
“The day is almost over.”
He turned away. Too quickly. Almost fleeing.
As if he had to save himself from a situation he didn’t want—or wasn’t allowed—to think through to the end.
Maybe his dream hadn’t been an invitation to taste his apple.
Maybe it was only an echo.
An echo of what had already been lived.
Or an echo of what he himself had felt, without being able to name it.
We gathered the few fruits that had grown warm on the cloth where we’d eaten.
Giorgio took Peppina by the rope, and we set off on the way back.
Home.
To where the sun was just setting.
