i hate peeling oranges.
i always have.
well, ever since i sat at my lunch table
and unzipped my blue and pink striped lunchbox to a yellow sticky note from my mom,
a crustless nutella sandwich,
a pouch of pringles,
and an orange.
at such a young age,
i had no idea how to pierce the fruit and unwrap its peel, unveiling its fresh nutrients and beauty,
nor did i feel like trying.
so, day after day, i left the orange untouched.

one day, a girl took the seat next to me and noticed the orange.
when i found her gaze, i wondered if she could give me a hand.
“could you help me peel this orange?” i asked.
she smiled as she handled the fruit.
she twisted it around in search of a good place to start.
soon, her smirk disappeared into a cloud of confusion as she struggled to find the right spot to pierce.
and after a while, she gave up and took her nail to a random spot in the peel.
she poked and prodded and pulled at the peel, but it didn’t help—it only made things worse.
the orange was not peeled.
instead, it was left damaged.
the peel hardened,
and the girl left.
i was back at square one, alone with my orange.

more people came around,
and each time someone would sit down i’d ask the same thing:
“could you help me peel this orange?”
they’d twirl the orange,
toss it between their two hands,
and sometimes it’d even slip and fall to the ground.
when the 4th person to attempt to peel the orange had left, i gave up.
i hated oranges, and i hated peeling them more,
so i forgot the orange even existed as i went on with my life.

i forgot about the orange until a boy sat across from me, eyeing it with passion.
it had scratches and bruises and all sorts of bumps, yet the boy didn’t mind— the marks intrigued him.
he shifted his hazel eyes to mine, pausing for a moment before opening his mouth to speak.
“i love peeling oranges,” he said. “could i help you peel it?”
i nodded and watched intently as he grazed the scars on the fibers of the fruit.
he gingerly lifted the damaged peel from the fresh, untarnished orange with minimal effort.
my stare rarely left his working hands, and when it did, it was to analyze his pointed nose,
his proportionally perfect ears,
and his rosy lips which he bit out of concentration.
but my attention would always shift back to his hands around the orange.
within a few minutes of careful execution, he looked up at me through his sand-colored hair and held the naked orange in the palm of his hand.
“done,” he pronounced with a grin.
“i told you
i love peeling oranges.”