Tangerine Summer

By Cody Nathanson | Observer Contributor

She drags the stool across the kitchen, vibrating against the tiles as it
moves.
With her eyes now above the counter, but beneath the bowl, she
reaches out.
Confident, she now holds the orange with both hands, jumping from
the stool.
As She now moves, so does her finger across the rind, looking for her
nail to catch.

Moving between the divide, her foot quickly finds the lip of the door
frame.
Catching herself, both hands now braced against the frame, she
stands.
She gives off a light breath, then another.
For across the room– on the armchair–the orange now sits.

Slowly dragging her feet across the carpet, she brings herself in front
of the chair.
Leering down, she reaches, quickly grabbing the orange.
As she starts to move, she pauses, then, with orange in hand, she
looks around the room.
Waiting, before pulling herself onto the armchair, where she sits.

Her smile fades, the fabric is as thin as the rose petals printed on them.
She shifts, but the enormous springs stay with her.
Lax staples sting her arm.
The smell of oranges fills the air.

Looking down, she sees what’s left of the orange’s rind, now scattered
around her lap.
Bouncing down onto her feet, she quickly sweeps them onto her shirt.
Making sure to leave nothing behind, she heads back to the kitchen.
This time, minding her step.