The rag is applied.
He scuffs at the edges, then works the flannel in loose, easy circles around the body of the fruit, shining it up till it gleams like a baby grand in a New York loft, first the golden side, then the silver.
In the shiny, reflective surface, there seems to be a... man, hanging from a bridge of old ropes and boards.
There is green leafy jungle below, a limp sea of lime gelatin and cannabis.
That almost ginger hair... those curls in the mess...
It’s the Eighth Doctor.
“Hey Doc, you think I could...” Jack begins, turning to look for the painting again.
Then he remembers.
“Time to air my dirty laundry, is it, Doctor? Well, all right then. Let’s get to it.”
Jack grins, and stares at the apple in his hands as he slowly holds it up closer and closer to his face.
It stares into him.