literature

Orange

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Sachiko91's avatar
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Literature Text

The sun illuminates the narrow streets of downtown.  I hadn't been here since the world fell  apart.  My world.  The streets seem unusually lively as I shuffle past masses of people,  past hot dog vendors, and beggars, my head bowed like a nun's.  The smells of gasoline, food cooking and rotting garbage produce a disgusting taste in my mouth.  Was this the taste of sadness? Anger? Regret? Oranges?


The faint twist of fresh citrus enters my nose and I inhale;where was this heavenly smell coming from?


I turn northwest, towards the Side Street Market, and see the old woman hunched over her  cashbox, counting bills as if her life depended on it.  Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.  I pick up my pace and make a path towards her; I want those oranges.


When I see them, I snatch one up, along with a peach.  Juggling them, I approach the lady, and wait for her to calculate the cost.  


Her eyes are full of questions; why didn't you come by last week?  The week before that? Have  you found somewhere better to buy these treats from?


One by one, I pick the answers, as carefully as I had chosen my fruit; I was busy last week. I was out of town.  No; nothing can measure up to the delightfullness that these fruits bring
me.


Instead of asking, she gives me a toothy grin, which I return and hand her ten dollars, telling  her to keep the change.


I walk on, crossing streets and intersections at perpendicular angles and rising slopes, wanting to reach my destination.  I had to get to that pub; he would be there.


He didn't know I was coming; if he did, he would drink himself to death, and I didn't want that.


The scenes and shops that I pass, begin to melt to together, one big melted ice cream puddle after another.  What I was doing was crazy; pity made a person that way.


The peach in the pocket of my jacket pulses against my stomach; a heart that was beginning to  beat. I trip and it spills out, smashing onto the pavement; its beating has stopped.  I walk on, mouring my crushed fruit and still clutching the orange.


At the corner of Madding Street, I see him; he's playing the guitar with one illustrated arm gripping the neck, while his other hand plucks at the strings.  At one time or another, he held me like that; one arm holding me steady, his hand strumming through my dreams and making them  into a beautiful melody.


My heart locks up in my throat; how do you tell a broken man that you're sorry--when you're the cause of the pain?


My pace slows until I realize that I am only a few feet away; I begin to listen to his music.


Quiet. Pulsing. Heart-breaking.


I wait until he stops before I make my move.  My airways get tight and I hack out a cough that makes him turn to me.


We stare at each other for a moment before he speaks.


"Hi."


I try and smile back, but it comes out as a grimace.


He begins to back away, his eyes angled towards the ground, the sky, into the pub; look anywhere but at me.


"I'm sorry," I blurt out.


He process this for a moment too long, and I thrust the orange into his hands, letting our brief touch send bursts of warmth through my fingertips.


His lips curve upwards, mumbles his thanks and slips past me; this time he's leaving me instead of the other way around; and I pretend that I don't see him slip the fruit into the garbage.

This is a flash-fiction that I wrote. Let me know what you think about it.
© 2008 - 2024 Sachiko91
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saffiremoon21's avatar
I like the mood of this piece- it's very mysterious.

What a waste of an orange XD