I have an orange sitting on my desk. It was deposited there by Dustin yesterday, one of many in a large bag of oranges from his Grandmother, recently arrived from Arizona.
I have been staring at my orange for two days, then. I spent a lot of time yesterday thinking about eating it, but I’ve given that up today in favor of smelling it. It smells wonderful, like summer in California when I was 9. My grandparents grew orange trees. The oranges were never big enough to eat when I was there, but the trees smelled wonderful.
And it smells like an open market in Europe, fruit on one side, flowers on the other. That, in turn, makes me think of wet cobbled streets where cars aren’t allowed to drive and wrinkly old men wearing funny hats and offering you a sample of today’s special fruit. My mouth waters just thinking of it.
Dustin said he thought it smelled like an orange. He is wrong.
My orange is also perfectly round. It isn’t a lumpy orange, like sometimes oranges are. It is a bright, beautiful shade of orange, too. Seeing it, you understand why the fruit and color share a name.
It isn’t a perfect orange. Its rind is a bit scuffed, but it is quite good enough for me.
Will I ever eat it? I’m not sure. I have elevated my orange onto a pedestal, and I’m afraid that if I eat it and it isn’t as juicy and wonderful as I’ve imagined, it might break my heart.