Mag had a little epiphany as she reached for the apricots.

She’d been a selfish child and she continued the behavior into adulthood. She became more subtle about it, but the truth is that she always wanted the best cookie on the plate. She was pretty sure everyone wanted the best cookie but that most of her fellows forgot that, after years of polite habits.

Mag angled for the best cookie and she noted who got it when she didn’t.

Dried apricots come in several forms. In addition to the obvious differences between the uncut Turkish variety and the halves Mag preferred, beyond the brown of dehydrated purity or the lovely preserved orange that comes with sulphur dioxide, dried apricots vary in size and dryness. Mag was among those who preferred her aps gooey. She liked to unfold a half and rake her bottom teeth through the flesh, removing the soft inside and leaving the skin for a second swallow.

She was into some excellent apricots lately. They were grown and packaged in Hollister, they were pricey, and they were consistently fine. Even so, a bag would contain a few small ones and a smattering of torn pieces among its prime occupants. Mag always had to decide as she reached into the bag, between going for the gold first, or wending her way through the few inferiors and saving the beauties for last.

The night before last she went to the refrigerator for a serving of apricots. The bag was there because, as she noted when she first bought the brand half a year ago, it had “best if kept refrigerated” printed on it. Mag remembers being surprised when she read that. After all, the fruit was already preserved. Then again it was gooey. She followed the package suggestion. A month ago she mentioned her surprise to her brother. He argued with her. He had just bought a package of the same brand of apricots and he showed her the bag; there was no recommendation about refrigeration. Then Mag was confused. She knows she has a good memory, and there’s no way she dreamed the advice. Recently she purchased the apricots again, and the recommendation was back on the bag, immediately below the company name. She and her brother concluded that the printing on the bag must change now and then.

She reached for the refrigerated bag the night before last and her question recurred: go for the good? get through the mediocre? close my eyes and see what I get? And as the question popped up, her brain slap-answered that it didn’t matter, because they were all hers. Suddenly it slammed into her consciousness that the choosing had always been about getting the best for herself: if she was about to offer the bag to guests then she’d angle for the beauties first; otherwise her preference was always to save the best for later.

It was a little epiphany but her own. I am selfish, Mag said to herself. My mother was right about that. I never got good grades for working with others, and I like to live alone. It works for me. Is there something wrong with me?

Her mother would say yes. But Mag never really agreed with her mom. Her mother accused her of laziness, and Mag is one of the busiest people in the world. Her mom said Mag had smarts but no common sense, and Mag is as sensible as an old witch. Then again, her mother hadn’t used those hard adjectives since Mag was a child 50 years ago. But Mag couldn’t forget the words.

Funny how harsh words stay with people. When Mag was 13 she went to a party in an acquaintance’s garage. One of the things she remembers about that night, dancing to 45s on a concrete floor, was shocking. The recordplayer (this was before folks called them turntables, and upscaled them with diamond styluses, and then outgrew them for tape decks and cassette players and MP3’s and iTunes and then reverted nostalgically to good old vinyl) had a short somewhere, and there was a puddle of water around the legs of the table on which it sat, and one had to step lively around it to avoid getting a shock if one touched near its needle. But the other thing she remembers is a comment one boy made to another in her hearing. About her. She cannot recall who the boys were, and the speaker, while cute, was never one of her crushes. But they’d been considering her, and the cute one said with a young leer “if she’s old enough to bleed she’s old enough to breed (heh heh)” and Mag was at once grossed out and embarrassed. It was such a harsh phrase. But worse: Mag hadn’t yet had her first period, a retardation (in her opinion) that required a coverup (she used to fake it in PE rollcall, adding “sponge” to her call-off number when attendance was taken, for a few days each month, which word signified to all hearers that she would not be showering at the end of the class time.)