Orange Peel

By Ann Davie

The Spray

She sat in a pond of lily pad tables.  Weak autumn light rippled with the thinning canopy outside the atrium windows.  She half-closed her eyes; her head hummed a half key sharper than the low buzz of conversations around her.  Clinks and chinks of cutlery punctuated the droning and every now and then the rough scudding of a chair abruptly altered the improvised harmony, interrupting her meditation.

She looked down at the ordered debris.  Plastic lunch box neatly placed on top of its lid.  Sandwich wrappings folded around the collected crumbs and stray sprouts.  She picked up the small orange and pushed the box to the top of the table.

Resting her elbows on the granite tabletop, she jabbed her thumbnail into the fruit.  Resistant to its fate, the peel broke in a small jagged tear. Orange oils were released in a fine mist over her hands and spiked the air with their sharp, fresh scent.  Not in the least bit sweet, the aroma was green and bright.

She glanced up and caught his eye before he quickly turned his head.  A faint flush across his cheek and throat gave him away.  She waited.  The orange poised on her fingertips.  She willed him to turn to face her.  And he did.

He raised his eyes slowly, too slowly, announcing his interest grandly.  The moment his gaze locked with hers, she dug her thumb into the ripped peel and pulled the two halves apart.  Juice sprayed before trickling down her wrist.

Now it was sweet.  Warm and full, the stinging bite of the zest was subdued by the fruit's hidden flesh.  Orange, not merely citrus.  Luscious not tart.

His hunger was obvious now.  She allowed a slight smile of acknowledgment as she observed him swallow hard.  Was he trying to regain his composure, or was he drinking her in?  Her tongue darted out and ran up the top of her forearm, along her wrist.  The warm and sticky skin was now sweet and musky.  She watched his jealous eyes follow her tongue.

The Flesh

She placed the orange halves on the table.  His desire was palpable and sent her thoughts spiraling, infusing them with a brazen heat.  Her skin tingled wanting to be touched; and a familiar, delicious warmth flooded her body waiting to be explored.  She parted her lips, licking them before placing one sticky finger after another against her tongue.  She savored the salty sweetness as much the delight found in watching him fidget, unable to look away from her.

A pod of solid businessmen settled nearby, their beefy hands fumbled with plastic forks and miniature napkins.  She could feel his despair.  His head bobbed above a wall of shoulders.  He resorted to moving tables.  Slightly closer, the increased intimacy heightened the frisson, adding an element of feared proximity.

She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply.  The essence of honeyed zest shot through her.  Images flashed of skin hot and wet from friction.  Two bodies panting in humid air thick with night blossoms waiting to close before first light.  She opened her eyes slightly, his features mingled in the same blurry haze.

She pulled a section of orange away.  It dripped into her cupped hand as she raised it to her parted lips.  Her tongue accepted the flesh, pulling it into her mouth.  With the gentle pressure of her tongue, the fruit burst, filling her mouth.

He leaned forward, focused on each gesture.  He watched her devour the fruit with equal hunger, his wide-eyed amusement replaced by basic lust.  She enjoyed the effect she was having on him and knew his thoughts were pulsing and surging in time with hers.

She imagined the soft flesh of his neck and belly giving way to her mouth.  Her fingertips knew his skin, taut over his chest and thighs, would yield to her touch.  She wondered what he would taste like, smell like.  Each section she ate tasted less like an orange and more like him.  The zesty fragrance lingering in the air was translated mentally, erotically, into the urgent scents of sex.  Imagined sounds and moans were lost amidst the humming in her head.

The Pip

She regretted reaching for the last section.  There had to be an end, but she realized the sweetest ending would have been to not finish.  She lowered her eyes, not wanting to meet his gaze.

She extracted the thin crescent from the white pith and held it gently. Looking up to see his face, she delivered a knowing expression that told of quick parting kisses which promised nothing more.  She popped the last section into her mouth, firmly closing her lips.  With a last, forceful release, the juice washed down her throat.  Flesh spent, all that remained was a hard pip.

The last languishing moment dashed, she raised her fingers to her mouth, delicately removing the seed.  She lowered her eyes in embarrassment; the awkward moment frustrated her.  She looked back up, hoping he wouldn't have noticed, but instead met his profile.

Following his regard, she discovered a young woman, soft in silk the color of chamois.  The woman's eyes were focused on the last strip of peel about to be removed from the horn of creamy flesh.

The fresh tang had left.  In its place, an annoying sticky sweetness remained.  She carefully gathered the discs of peel, cradling the small bits in the larger ones and dumped them into the plastic box.  She pushed her chair back, the rough shudder causing heads to turn.  All but two.  There was no use in competing against a banana.