The Orange

I cradle the soft yet weighty fruit in my palms, analyzing it's puckered surface. I reminisce about the amount of time it's been since I have been graced with the presence of such a snack. The question remains though: where to start? As I contemplate my course of action, my fingernails indent the shape of a star around the top stem. I pull off the star, revealing the innards of the tiny stem underneath, which momentarily fascinates me, with its intricate, miniscule holes.

Then I dig in. The thick, vibrant peel is pulled tight across the soft middle and I have to squeeze my fingers underneath to tear it off gently in smooth puzzle pieces. My fingernails catch on the thin membrane underneath and juice floods my fingertips. I involuntarily jerk my fingers back and move around, finding a new spot from which to rip sections. At last it is done, the fragile, inner core unobscured and plump with juices.

By now, I realize this must be enjoyed slowly, with great deliberation. I examine the wedges, firmly held by the white remnants from underlayers of skin which I neglected to remove. I carefully roll my hands outward, splitting the wedges into two halves. I lose a couple wedges to those around me who have recognized the value of my snack. Then without hesitation, I peel off a wedge and sink my teeth into the end.

Rich, succulent juices burst forth from the fleshy pulp, and I swirl the juxtaposing flavors of sweet and tangy around my mouth. Gulping greedily, I finish off the other half of the wedge and swallow with a small sigh of delight. It is delicious. I silently thank the giver of this fruit and revel in my newfound snack. I take my time peeling off the next wedges, popping some into my mouth whole and biting chunks off of others. I split one apart, examining the spindly veins of pulp inside. Each one is tapered at both ends and contains one perfect drop of the fresh liquid. They pack together in the wedge, attached in perfect symmetry, creating a network of veins that cling to each other even as I rend them asunder and burst their thin membranes to flood my mouth with juice. I chew hungrily, enjoying each wedge in its own unique way.

Finally, there are only two left. I weigh the remainder of the fruit tenderly in my palm, realizing it can't last much longer. I carefully split the sections, tearing small slits in the skins of each. Then one is gone, and there is only a single lone survivor of what once was a plump, living, glorious work of nature. In a way, I can almost imagine its life before it found its way into my hand. How it started off as a seedling, then gradually swelled on its branch, changing in size and in color, until it was ready to be plucked, boxed, and shipped. It rested in a pile in the produce section until it was selected by my giver. It spent a few days, or maybe just hours, inside a fridge, preserving its life. And then it was mine.

Now, I take precious care, and finish slowly. When it is gone, I let the juice drip off my fingertips and onto my tongue, reveling in what was the joy of my afternoon.