The orange

[pegkerr]

It is cold and heavy, a satisfying weight in my hand. The peel is soft, supple and fragrant. I pull off a section and take one bite, juice dripping from my fingers. The flesh is unbelievably delicious, and when I lick my fingers, I taste the bitterness from the oil that impregnated the rind underneath the sweetness of the juice.

I eat more quickly, because it is so cold, so juicy, so good, ripping sections in half in my haste, the membrane fluttering like the thinnest possible silk across my teeth. My tongue aches from the cold, but it is a pleasant ache. The stickiness of my fingertips still lingers after the last orange pulp is swallowed.

I do believe I will have another one.