Orange Sunday

3

It is a Sunday. I am sitting in a house that is only vaguely familiar - the same floor plan as my best friend's, but not the same furniture or people or pictures. It is like returning to your childhood home, and finding someone else's belongings where yours used to be.

There are orange peels in my lap, and a football game on the tv. My throat burns, though it is more of a caked, dry feeling than the one that comes with running.

I glance at the orange in my hands. It's not an orange, not really; it's one of those little ones, like Halos or Cuties, that taste nothing like a real orange but look exactly the same other than their size.

This is my fifth orange. I dig my nail into the skin at the base of the stem, and begin peeling. It comes off all in one neat curl, which I stack on top of the other four on my thigh.

I put a piece of the orange into my mouth, pausing. How high am I? The room seems to be far away, but the face in front of me is not.

I bite into the section of orange. Its flavor seems to explode in my mouth, erasing all taste of popcorn or graham cracker.

There is laughter from miles away - no, it is beside me, the people on the other couch.

I am dizzy.

Am I high enough?

I swallow my bite, the bitter aftertaste still on my tongue. I replace it with another section of the orange, suck the juice out of it, and swallow again.

No. No, I need to be higher.

I put another piece of orange in my mouth, except it's not there. I must have finished it.

"Can I have another?" I ask the boy who lives here.

He points to the bowl and says, "Just take them all." His face is puffy, and his eyes are crossed. Unfocused.

I take the bowl of oranges, and begin peeling.