Gene Wolfe

When nights were warmer, he and Josellen often left their beds and met behind the inn to gossip or, more rarely, ride secretly on the chapel path, one behind the other on a horse some pilgrim was boarding at the inn stable. Sometimes, when it was very hot, they even made the long, frightening night walk through the forest to the river to swim, returning exhausted in spite of having rested panting on the riverbank before beginning the trip home.
Occasionally too, when he had been unsuccessful in finding a supper, he had lifted the kitchen latch and stolen apples and turnips from Josellen’s father’s bins, or found a pork bone or piece of gravy-soaked bread Josellen had left out for him. Tonight he decided to raid the inn even though he was not particularly hungry. There was an excitement in him that made the thought of an apple taken in the dark kitchen and gnawed on the way back to his pallet almost unbearably seductive. He could sense in anticipation the cold juice wetting his cheeks and plashing down his chin as he bit through the peel.