Moving On
A nervous looking orange. Bright light reflects from its perspiring face.
Pimples as if to affirm the cold nature of its environment. I can almost imagine its dreaming of warmer climes, memories of its youth, not so long ago; now mine to devour.
I am myself temporally transported there as the Orange releases its distracting citric aroma.
I return with clarity motivated by the manager’s promise of an “exceptionally juicy“ experience.
Round, but not a perfect sphere, solid almost, smooth but cold and clammy to touch, its skin hard but compliant, belying the battle that’s about to begin.
I attack and a frantic wrestle begins, between fingers and peel, prodding, ripping and tearing like a desperate lover. The Orange, a shyness about it, is reluctant to shed it outer layer.
My fingers numb with effort, I send reinforcements, using my teeth to expedite the process, biting into the tough peel. I recoil in horror as the sour acridity hits my taste buds. It hits me. The orange is fighting back.
Like soldiers laying a siege, I attack the now exposed Achilles’ heel with fervour.
It appears as if red mist has replaced all conventional rules and I tear at the breached outer skin plunging my fingers into the soft wet innards of the fruit. I am again momentarily repelled as a volley of acidic liquid, caustic almost, is released into my eyes and onto my skin penetrating my imperfections and stinging my eyes.
I fight on and push my advantage, breaching the outer layer, I grab segments bound together by membrane refusing to be parted like brothers in arms, and consume.
An overwhelming explosion of flesh and liquid fills my mouth and I struggle to contain the competing elements of sweet and sour.
There is a desperate last act of defiance as a release of bitterness almost causes me to retreat.
Eyes watering, I almost release the segments imprisoned in my mouth, before finally subdued, the refreshing sweet orange juice haemorrhages freely into my mouth.
I quickly subjugate the remaining segments, decapitating one, the impetus of my earlier efforts making this an easy process. The last remaining remnants of the fruit succumb to my resolve.
My teeth like a strainer, full of the entrails of the orange segments, a bitter after taste still hangs in my mouth, the initial euphoria vanished, and I reflect a hollow victory as my tummy rumbles.
I wash away the remaining stains of victory from my sticky hands and survey the sacked ruined remains of the oranges outer shell, which is then discarded without fanfare into the bin.
My tummy rumbles.
I move on…
