Conad

We drove down the dirt road for miles with the scorching sun overhead. The sound of the rubber rolling through the rough terrain and a large palm overhead. Perfectly clear skies with the overwhelming smell of citrus that filled the air and put wrinkles in my nose. I squeezed it tighter, so forgiving, but not so fresh anymore, it reminded me of home. I sorted the spheres for hours in hopes of finding the perfect match and I had not noticed all the people who came and went buying pre-packaged fruits and bagged vegetables.

My feet were glued, I focused. I had rubbed the texture right off the peel, and the color grew faint, my reflection started to poke through and I was no longer the only one in awe. A tap on my shoulder followed by his roar. Meanwhile, I soaked in the Florida sun with fresh squeezed orange juice from Hale’s Grove, not from concentrate, browsing the aisles, fresh samples of juice, orange flavored ice cream too and I came to appreciate that nasty pulp.

It exploded all over the clerk’s cotton pressed shirt and I opened my eyes, smiled. It was silent for a moment. He smiled back at me; an american? Had he known? I walked out of the store without saying a word and the citrus dripped from my hand to the sidewalk. I don’t remember how long it took to convince myself. The neighbor, a twig-like woman complained of the tacky floors and the peel I left by the door. I simply smiled, but she would never know why it was still crushed in my fist.