She walked into the kitchen, the heart of the house. His smell was not here, not like in the bedroom, on his pillowcase; or in the bathroom, his fine silver hairs scattered in the sink. Instead, a tangy, overripe odor caught her midstep. She paused, her eyes sweeping the gleaming countertop.
It was an orange.
From where she stood, she could read Sunkist on the label. Late afternoon sunlight backlit the orange, giving it a dusky glow and casting a round shadow in the basin of a giant fruit bowl.
Her hand fluttered to her throat, squeezing tight against the tightness that was already there, a tightness that was always there, lately.
It's just an orange, she whispered, stepping back, ready to flee the kitchen and all that round fruit represented.
Just an orange - and her mind scattered back a dozen years, to the early days of their coming together.
"Here," he said then, picking up the round fruit. "Let's share this." His strong fingers dug into the pitted skin, his nails whitening as he dug in, dug in, first creasing, then tearing the tough hide. The skin split and his fingers widened the gap. She leaned back, expecting the juicy spray that Sunkist crowed was a hallmark of its Florida goodness. No spray -- just a slow ripping sound as the peel lifted away, exposing a thick white covering.
"Oh, I don't really like oranges," she had said then. It was true.
But he persisted, and his will prevailed. For the next seven years they shared two oranges a day, a lunchtime ritual she would miss sorely when she changed jobs.
She hated to peel oranges herself, and so never ate them again.
He had learned to love sharing oranges with her; when she left he began playing cribbage at lunch, and so never ate them again. The juice made the cards sticky, he said.
Alone now, standing in her kitchen - their kitchen! she picked up the orange. It was heavy and old, its skin wrinkled and puckered. It looked like the world to her now - a small universe of sweetness buried under a thick shell. She remembered the rest of the fruit basket: grapefruits and bananas. She'd eaten those and never noticed the orange.
She studied the orange, walking her fingers along the lumpy skin. At the navel, she paused, thinking about how everything has a beginning, and an end. She touched her own navel, through the worn cotton shirt she was wearing. An outie, just like the orange. She wondered briefly where her next connection would be, then started to cry.
She sat, and placed the orange on the table. She studied her hands: nails split, but serviceable.
She picked up the orange, considering.
Slowly, she dug in her fingers. First the skin creased, then it tore. Juice spurted, a slightly rancid smell. She carefully pulled the skin off, piece by piece, building a small pile on the table. This orange, like the first one they shared, was covered in a thick white rime. Underneath she could see pale orange ripples, the segments of the fruit waiting to be pulled apart one by one. She carefully carved away what she'd always called white gunk. It took a long time; she wanted every shredded thread gone.
As she worked, she thought. Memories of him piled in, one on top of another. That first day, sharing the fruit. Other days, enjoying the orange glow of a sunset at the beach. Years whirling by, colored with the wonder of having found him, her soul mate, and as their love grew, it rounded off her rough edges, softened his coarse ways. It had grown, bigger and rounder and fuller than the juiciest orange they had ever shared.
And then her world burst, flattened by fate. She paused, looking down at her hands, the naked orange, the pile of skin.
Now the orange was a pale gold ball, suffused with its own internal glow. Fingerholes pocked the surface, marking spots where she had dug in too deeply. Juice had oozed out, creating shimmering streaks on the table.
She pulled apart the orange, its snickering separation causing her to shudder in familiar recognition. She laid each half-moon segment on the table, creating a circle, then a sunburst, next a rainbow.
Finally she shaped his name, and ate the pieces, one by one.
by Susan Rich, (c)2014 All Rights Reserved
