Microscope (10m)

Leaning over the white marble table top with shiny black metallic phone and rainbow glass round of macro lens, apply it to my glistening eye and hunch over the dappled orange. Burst of candy citrus scent like a poodle jumping over a rainbow with a mandarin red hat and a big smile. Confetti showers of sweetness and sugar water sprayed in a fine mist over my nose. Notice the perfect roundness of the fruit, its skin with little holes like an awkward teenagers acne skin, the orange is turning in on itself to hide in shame. That’s why the delicious, sweet fruit hides in the centre, triangle segments enfolded in waxy thick translucent skin bags, and my stomach turns and tightens at the thought of that flavor squelching on my tongue, feeling the perfect little pods of orangeness, the tiny cell-bags whose texture I can feel in my mouth as I burst them, and an operatic rendition of The Final Countdown begins, a massed chorus of fruits bellowing the words with enthusiasm, bordering on hysteria. Now the fruits are screaming the song, crying citrus smarting acid tears as I rip the orange fruit with my teeth, and they sing for glory, for their friend, raging fruit against the dying of the light. Hopping upon and down on the table, all the fruit


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