The Orange

Still in the blissful newness of playing house and me constantly dizzy with sex, it did not seem to matter that our home was just another Arcata slum with linoleumed floors that peeled up at the edges. Not much seemed to matter to me in those days; at least, not the same things that matter now. What did matter, besides rehearsals, weed, and being in love was the movie theatre around the corner and the fact that a friend of Brent's worked there. That meant free movies for us.

I never was a fan the Hollywood Blockbuster; Brent, however, felt it necessary to go watch the Titanic sink at every matinee showing during the two month run of the film, which left me an hour of guaranteed (and much needed) solitude everyday. On this particular Tuesday though, I was reticent to see him go, wishing I could lie next to him in our mussed bed for just a moment longer. His quick departure had left me anxious and antsy for reasons I could not explain.

Puttering around the apartment, naked and alone, I stared out the window awhile, watching the raindrops slither down the glass. That was when I eyed the bag of oranges in the kitchen. I saw it in the reflection of the window, sitting on the kitchen counter. Drawn to it, I drifted over and stole one from the bag. I ate it over the garbage can with a sudden onset of voracity. Slowly, deliberately peeling its rubbery epidermis away to reveal the sweet flesh of it, I bit into it like an apple, letting the juice run down my hands, wrists and arms to convalesce on my bosom. The orange overtook me. I bit in deeper, working my tongue inside it so that its nectar soaked my cheeks. I was reminded of Amber, the first girl I was with, and how she had soaked my cheeks in a similar manner. I suckled that orange until all that was left in my hand was a bit of peel and pulp. Covered with its sticky stuff and finally sated I drifted back to bed for a long, dreamless sleep.