My feet find their way on the cold white pine, toes curling against themselves, miserly with their quickly escaping warmth. I stand in the kitchen, longing for bitterness to answer the sour tang of panic, adrenaline gone stale. But I do not like coffee and contemplating the effort of tea and sugar and milk exhausts me.
Letting hunger and nausea in turns burn a hole in my stomach, I turn my mind to the day, to the shower and drive ahead. My hair hangs in a limp fan across my shoulders, snaking around my ears and neck. I would sooner cut it off than wash it again, if only I could muster the will.
Surprising myself, I reach across the nearly empty counter to dig my nails into the peel of an orange. Pulling it close, the wild effluvium smothers me in a dark and seething nostalgia. I drown it beneath the sharp spray of juice that rips across my face as I tear the fruit in half.
It might as well be tractor wheel. It might as well be a mirror as I lift it to my lips, bleeding and supple. I gag and spit it into the sink, leaving the white pulp shivering in stainless steel.
Aching, I limp back to the warm dark cocoon of my bed, the strange scent of citrus winding behind.
