I nodded rhythmically as she spoke, pulling my facial expression up and down accordingly, mirroring hers. I widened my eyes as she whispered in my ear the drama concerning a best friend; she must’ve forgotten she had already told me about it. I picked an orange out of a bowl next to me, so I’d have something to do with my mouth. I used to eat a bag of small oranges with my best friend during each class period we had together in high school, collecting the stickers we peeled from their fragrant skin. I still consider oranges my favorite fruit, although I haven’t had a good one since tuning into the finale of said friend and her dating life. I dug my marmalade-painted nail into the flesh, having already decided that these oranges were slightly too soft to taste good and sour. I slid my fingers underneath the peel to remove it from the fruit in a single piece, taking care to show equal interest in the dialogue before me. Orange eating is a task best worked through while watching a movie or listening to music.
After taking a moment to fold the detached peel into a hollowed-out orange, admiring my hard work, I break the fruit into two pieces if it is a clementine, tangerine, or mandarin, depending on the season, and into three if it is of a larger variety (which is never my first choice). I began picking the white strings off each piece, opening up my stance to compensate for my lack of eye contact. The conversation had gained another voice by the time I turned the three pieces of orange into ten edible segments: perfect time for an orange. I enjoy the fruit of my labor, ranking each piece from the sourest to which one tastes like a warm puddle where someone spilled their orange juice trying to chase after a friend. I intently made my way through the mound of slices in my palm. The laughter between the two sounded like it came from a single being, shrill and satiric, that of a crow who just added to its collection of sparkling artifacts.
I swallowed the mush of a watery slice and inspected the last for any lingering strings. I chewed until the juice was gone but my mouth continued to work at the now warm and pulpy mass of flesh. Stumbling upon eye contact, I was met with the piercing silence and expectant look that typically follows a question. My face heated as I wiped my sticky hands and mouth of orange juice. I prepared a calculated yet un-telling response, but my throat wouldn’t pull the piece of orange, reduced to a mass of tough pulp on my tongue, down my throat. The more I chewed the more the texture mimicked the bleach-orange mat on my hairbrush. I tried to discreetly spit the fruit into my palm as they turned their attention towards each other once more, unfazed by my silence, but it was tangled between my teeth. I gagged as orange pith grew inside of my mouth, writhing as if it were alive. Unable to breathe through my mouth and the scent of citrus making me nauseous, my fingers grabbed at the insides of my cheeks. I caught a glimpse of blurred figures merging in an embrace, hearing the muffled sound of a new voice.
Doubling over the trash can full of white string and peel I heaved and a mess of bitter pith rose from my throat, overflowing from the trash can onto my white shoelaces. A handful of orange seeds like sharp pebbles found their way into my shoes, keeping me from following as the three began to turn away, beckoning for me to join them. I collapsed onto the floor, vigorously shaking my sneakers, but the kernels were deep inside the feet of my tights. Sitting in a puddle of hot tears and orange juice I grabbed the fruit bowl and aimed at their retreating bodies.