A Thing Shared Between Friends
By Margaret Charlton
“When I die I want my body to be buried under an orange tree.”
I shove the nail of my left thumb into the orange’s skin. Peeling. Peeling. Peeling– it away from the rest of the fruit. My fingers plucking and tearing and pulling. Stripping the fruit bare and open to the night’s cold air. The orange covered now only in white lines that I peel off the fruit too… I hate the texture (not on my hands, but on my tongue), I bet Vivienne would hate it too. The strips were picked methodically anyway… Pick. Pick. Pick. And the longer lines tear off with them; being pulled from the fruit and placed away with the thick skin to rot. The fruit left blank and bare and a tangerine color, not orange. I finally let my fingers grip the fruit itself and split it in half (not evenly, but close).
“Why?”
The orange tears in half.
“That way I never really die. There’s always a part of me out there. I get to still hang out with everyone I guess.”
Juice doesn’t trickle out; the slices peel easily from themselves. Vivienne is given the bigger half. I always give her the bigger half. For me an orange is only something sweet shared between friends; A moment I wish I could tie to my wrist and share with myself in private during lonely moments.
“Makes sense.”
I eat quickly, she does too. I hate the taste of oranges, all tart and bitter to me; with juice running down my hands and face. My mouth puckers. My tongue retracts. I eat the pieces quickly. The skin coats my tongue, my teeth, my mouth, my lips (I hate when it does that). I swallow it whole. The pieces disappear and I eat another, and another, and another, until it is lost and my hands are bare and empty. I will clean my palms in the stream and peal another (before Vivienne can ask me to). Vivienne loves the taste. I taste it with her.
“If the oranges taste bad though that would be so embarrassing.” I don’t like oranges... I can’t imagine a world where anything Vivienne makes tastes bad, even in death.
I pass her another half of an orange. She eats it happily letting the juice get on her clothes, her hands, and her knees. She makes no move to clean it. Letting it settle. Settle. Settle– into her clothing, her skin, her pores, her memories. She will be sticky later– I hope she doesn’t touch me before she cleans up; I wouldn’t push away if she did. I couldn't ever imagine not welcoming her touch– even if she did touch me just to push me away.
“I don’t think you would ever let that happen.”
I eat my pieces more slowly, letting them sit on my tongue this time. It tastes no better now than it did before. I eat two more slices; I offer the rest to Vivienne she turns them away.
“You’re right… I would never let that happen,” she grabs my hand; it’s sticky, I hold it tight.
THE END
Author Bio: Margaret Charlton is a second-year at California Polytechnic getting a bachelor's degree in English. She has had past publications in Teen Ink, Bomb Fire Lit, and 101 words.