In almost a heartbeat, a great wave of sadness washed over her as she cursed herself for having tasted something long ago that she could never have after or again. For in partaking of that first taste, she was absolutely ruined. The tasting of the apple was knowledge itself, and now she knew.
This is from page 136 of the novel Gabriel's Inferno by Sylvain Reynard. It reminded me of the same thing, the same kiss, when I was in Italy. The Epic Kisser. Most good things (if not all) do come from Italy.
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