Oranges

You've always liked oranges. Liked the briny scent of the rind and the feeling of piercing its waxy flesh. 

She liked them too, not that you care.

Because deep, deep down, 

You know that something like that wouldn't have stopped you from what you were doing. 

Her middle name was Lily. 

She liked Titanic but hated Leonardo Dicaprio. 

She loved lucky charms and felt guilty whenever she snuck downstairs to eat them. 

Her favorite color was lilac purple. 

Her parents used to call her their little flower. 

She used to have a stuttering problem and whenever she started to stutter, she would whistle through the pauses until she could speak in whole words. 

Her eyes crinkled up at the corners whenever she smiled. 

She liked oranges. 

And you did too, 

which was probably why you both hit it off so well. 

Of all of the places to meet the love of your life, who would've thought that the grocery aisle would be the origin of your love story? That you would meet the love of your life while picking oranges? 

Except you weren't her lover, were you?

No one thought anything of it, at first. 

Neither did she. 

It was a simple gesture, 

A single orange from a kind stranger, 

greeting her with a smile every morning when she went to fetch the mail. 

Except that smile soon turned to a dark grin 

and after a while, 

she couldn't walk out to her car without her hands shaking or her eyes frantically scanning the space around her, looking for other eyes that might be tasting her neck, slowly tearing her clothes off, watching the cadence of her footsteps.

At least you were careful. 

You never parked your car out front, where she could see you with her panicked eyes. 

That day, you thought it was finally time to give her the gift of knowing who her orange admirer was. 

She was in her driveway, watching you with cautious eyes, a tentative smile perched on her lips. 

It fell and was soon covered by a shaking hand

When you proudly presented her with your final gift, 

a single orange. 

You didn't even know why she did what she did, 

All you knew was that you were angry. 

The orange in your hand was soon crushed by your fist and the juices dripped down your wrist, splattering over concrete. 

Her eyes widened with shock and fear and a million other expressions 

but yours only had one: revenge. 

When you were done, you drove away from that house, 

revenge replaced with empty satisfaction,

the air around you infused with the fruity smell of your hands. 

You didn't buy an orange from another grocery store ever again.  

Three years later, you eat lunch outside with one of your coworkers. 

He takes out two oranges. 

The citrus scent blinds you and for a moment, you can almost feel her fear on your hands and in your body, stolen and devoured greedily. You can almost see the blood dripping down your hands, iron mixed with innocent sweetness. 

You lick your lips. 

"Hey, you want one?"

You look up. 

Your friend has an orange in one hand, ready to toss it to you. 

You hesitate.

"Yeah, thanks."

He throws it to you and the orange is in your hands, 

beautiful, delicious, and wonderful to destroy.