Bowl of Oranges

She leaned over the sink, to catch the juice from the fresh summer orange running across her resisting skin; running down, both sides, of her wrinkled throat. Throbbing. Dark pink and smooth, cream. Her right hand squeezing the vinyl counter top, fingernails pressing into the soft, peeling part.

"Good", she says, turning around to look at me.

Brown eyes meeting blue. Always reminding me. She'd say, "All my children. All of them. Blue eyes. Mine are brown."

I don't smile, like usual, because it doesn't seem right. Not with the sun streaming in through the one small window. Streaming in shafts, which showed the dust particles shimmering like gaudy bits of silver. It's too quiet. Too solemn.

I cleared my throat instead, "I thought we'd, y'know, talk."

Words like sawdust on my tongue. Sticky. Like the remnants of citrus still clinging to her face. I sighed, reached up to wipe it away, and she slapped my hand from her.

There was a dead bug, floating upside down, in my Mason jar and I saw it, right up against the slice of lemon; but I drank it anyway. Long, cool drinks that my mouth can't hold. Earth and water swirled together. Down my face. Down, down and my back aches against the slats of the wooden chair.