Peel an orange and dream of him. Peel and orange and inhale him. Peel an orange and remember the sweet, sweet kiss of thirteen. The citrus tang of his lips, not what you expected.
Pop the top off a beer bottle and watch it foam. Spongy white bubbles sucked up and swallowed. The glug of fifteen is malty and yeasty fumbling in the park, happy you’re no longer thirteen.
Walk the high street after dark, past the shopping centre and the takeaway, through the underpass. Hot oil clinging to you. The stagger home smell of a night on the town. A head on a pillow. A hungover mumble. What was your name again? The years, a blur.
Twenty.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine.
Thirty.
On a special occasion, or sometimes just because the mood takes you, make linguine alla vongole. Stand over the simmering stove and try to get back to that summer on Capri. The slurp and sip as you ate. The clack of shells on porcelain. Oil and garlic oozing from your pores for days. You could find one another by scent alone. That was the prime of your life. You just didn’t know it.
Cup your hands over your mouth and breathe out. Sniff. Check. Click some gum from the plastic and chew. Cup your hands again. Sniff again. Okay. Sit opposite him and talk with fresh-mint confidence. The speck of something green between his teeth, distracting you. Forcing his hand to his mouth. Self-conscious. You smile, let him see you also know loneliness. Forty years of it.
On a pier, one rainy summer day, lick an ice cream cone. Fake vanilla dribbling down your wrist and spattering your sandals. Think about having another one because, who worries about these things now the years are softening?
Sit in an armchair and suck something menthol. Sit in an armchair and cough something moist. When he asks, ‘everything okay?’ nod and ask for tea. ‘Reply ‘camomile’, when he asks what kind, just to see him crinkle his nose. The musty taste of it, a hint of something you prefer not to dwell upon.
Peel an orange, slowly and with gnarled hands. Peel an orange though you will not eat it. Peel an orange and inhale it, kiss it. Peel an orange and remember. The sweet, sweet memory of thirteen.
This story was first published in the 2018 National Flash Fiction Day anthology.
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