I let the oranges rot. It’s depressing when the cupboards are nearing bare and all these lovely oranges are going bad in the hanging fruit basket. I hang on to them, hanging there, because when I touch them they go soft in the middle, not firm like when I bought them. Still, they bring a brightness to the kitchen and if I roll them on the side that’s less brown they seem more inviting.
The day will come when I’ll have to dump them into the compost or green bin. When they resurrect the blasted fruit flies or start to sour, leaking brown blood on to the floor. They no longer taste any good but they still have some use yet. It’s a shame to be premature. It’s desperate to hang on too long or so they tell me.
January comes to a close. Bitter nights when I shrug into my jacket and close my eyes to the wind. Bright mornings that should bring renewal but the coffee’s always burnt and the milk’s gone.
I should go to the grocery so I make a mental list but all the items make me feel full and I like this aching hunger. It feels like the ambition to disappear and it’s quieter the smaller you get.
Yesterday, someone told me I’ve lost weight and my smiles look sad. I practiced smiling in the mirror. She was right.
Today, I bought a bright red pepper and set it in the fruit basket. I’ll eat it, I think. But it’s all just apples and oranges anyway.