You know how I know that I am old? I now take an orange, small to begin with, on the verge of rotten in its collapsing sweetness, cut it in half with a steak knife, eat four sliced triangles from that, throwing the stretchy, cleaned peels right into the trash knowing citrus doesn’t work in compost heaps, turn over the other tiny half on a dish, in order to save saran wrap (purchased once every ten years) and have another four wedges later when I again find myself perusing the kitchen looking for some something to calm down this loneliness born of no consumption?
Naranja, I remember the Central American, hard-hat wearing, laborer I met at Micron at the foot of the mountain, one of those bitter winter days and she’d pulled an unwrapped tamale straight from her too thin, coat pocket, handed it to me with a wide smile filled with glowing white teeth. I took a bite and thanked her, the blonde secretary next to me rolling her eyes, turning away while shaking her head, nada, nada, nada, you imbecile!
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