No greater disappointment has ever been felt than in the shattered expectations of a delicious mandarin orange turning out to be a mildly bitter, flavourless letdown. Such is the uncertainty of choosing an orange, but it won’t stop me from having another.
When undressing a mandarin, gently, so her gown slips off in one piece, one fantasizes of a tangy delight, an experience so divine that the fantasy itself urges the tongue to tingle in anticipation. Awaiting its mistress, the mouth salivates — out of instinct, and out of respect. The orange itself is ready, she offers a few slices at a time, so as to not overwhelm the moment.
The orange — so delicate, so juicy — yet entirely deceiving.
Then, at the climax of the experience, it falls short in every way to please. The orange, it has no life, no passion, no devotion. So many oranges to have chosen from, a full box and I haphazardly grabbed the worst orange in the history of tiny oranges. What went wrong?
So I go for another, expecting it to be everything I hoped for in the first, and again — bitter and unsophisticated. I loathe the misgivings of imported boxed fruit. Is there no sanctity in citrus?
