Tangerine Slices

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They probably think I’m crazy, the neighbors. The girl who’s got her window cracked open this late in December, eating a tangerine. She carefully peels the orange fruit, and then holds the slices at the crack of the window before she eats them. Let’s the slices mingle casually with the good company of crisp winter air, since for all they know they grew up in a market or in the hot humid company of Florida or Georgia. I’m letting the tangerine have a bit of a life before I eat it. Har. Har. Har. Actually, all I’m doing is making the slices be rid of that artificial, cold, refrigerator feel. But here’s a bit of an orange slice to chew on: If I say that the neighbors must think that I’m crazy, aren’t I just making ignorant assumptions, just as I say they are? Maybe they aren’t paying attention to me at all. Maybe they’re eating breakfast, drinking coffee, chatting with family members. Or maybe they’re still sleeping, or reading in bed, like my mom right now. My best friend just called. She lives two houses down from mine. I was over at her house last night, and we were laughing at the lights on her window and at the story I wrote. One of the characters in it is creepy, she says. When she called, she asked if she could come over; vice versa. I told her I had to brush my teeth and etc., then I would call her back. I had hung up the phone, and returned to letting my tangerine slices mingle casually with the good company of the crisp winter air. The neighbor’s probably think I’m crazy.





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