HOW TO PEEL AN ORANGE

Katia Ariyan The morning I met her I was there, at my favorite bus stop, struggling to peel an orange. The simple task is difficult with blunt fingernails, because it requires an initial puncture point to get the peeling started, and my nails are altogether too soft and flat to accomplish this, so I sat there digging at the fruit’s skin futilely, the orange quickly turning warm and limp in my hands. I heard her before I saw her, the plastic of her kitten heels scraping against the pavement beneath her. She took no notice of me, but put her hand up to her forehead and looked around for the bus. I observed she had a waist somewhere under layers of faux leather, her skin was tanning bed battered, her hair was tarnished platinum yellow. Shw, a makeup compact, a blue rabbit’s foot, few crumpled receipts, an empty pill container, a half-empty pill container, perfume, an m&m, a crumbled fortune cookie, a tube of peroxide, a flyer for a palm reading, a nickel. I pretended to be very busy with my orange, its weak misfires of citrus flinging themselves at my face. She knelt and brought her bag to the floor and corralled her things back inside with her arm. She looked at me. I stuck my thumb deeper into the impenetrable orange peel.

“Can I have that?” she said.

I looked at her and looked at my orange, then I handed it over. She reached into the fabric folds at her chest and produced a butterfly knife. Then she flicked it open, put it to the orange, and peeled it, all in one piece, like a snake shedding skin.