I think I was
sixteen. I didn't have a
driver's license yet, and would not get one for another two years. My mother regularly packed tangerines with
lunch, and after a half-day of
fermenting in a
locker the
sandwich would be soggy and joyless and I'd still have to deal with the messy half-smashed
fruit.
He was tall and skinny, funny and
brilliant,
emo before emo was in, relatively new to the neighborhood and dripping with
coolness. Of course everyone wanted to be seen with him. Our parents were friends, but we seemed stuck in the
gray zone just after "
acquaintances".
We went over to their house once for some reason or other. He walked around the corner eating a tangerine.
I've been
mad about tangerines ever since - their flavor, their convenience (once I'd figured out a small
cardboard box would prevent squishing), the useless but impressive skill I developed to peel them in one continuous even
spiral, the beautiful way they splatter against a
frat house. I tell myself
it's just coincidence.
I'm sure there's a term for this.
this turned out to be somewhat of a GTKY node. many apologies.