Orange

I wanted to eat the orange before it had a chance to cool down. I wanted to eat it while its blood was still warm, while it still had air in its lungs, while it and I were still alive. Back in the car, my body would readjust to the air-conditioned air, I would brush the beads of water off of my forearms, smooth my hair, and tuck in the sheets on the bed in my mouth. But here, in the warm California sun, I could feel what I wanted to, taste what I wanted to, and mouth ideas to myself that no one questioned. I tore the orange open with a vicious joy. My nails drove into the peel, my wrists twisted, and the juice ran out. It trickled over my wrists and down my forearms. I ducked my head and followed the trail of orange from my elbow back up to the fruit, biting a huge chunk from it. The orange tasted like electricity dusted with sugar.

An abrupt horn blast jarred me. My heart sped up, small like something encased in glass, but I didn’t move. I slid my eyes over just enough to see his shadow behind the tinted glass in the mushroom-colored car. His arm jerked out of the window, quick and dark.

Again, I raised the orange to my mouth and took a long, sucking mouthful. Then I turned, walked back to the car, and let the orange’s sharp stickiness seal my mouth.