Stuff

Tangerines and That

“You’ve never tasted tangerines?”

I glare at him in reply. “Yeah. So what?”

He laughs. “Nothing. It’s . . . weird. Most people I’ve met at least tried one or even heard of it.”

“Spare me the lecture. I already know I’m crazy, insane and all that shit,” I grumble, and I reach out to the fruit bowl on the table to pull out a granny apple. I don’t eat it but stare at its neon green skin. “Why are they green?” I wonder aloud.

“Great! Story time!” He beams and leans closer to me. I am acutely aware only air and a dining table are separating us. He clears his throat. “Long ago in the kingdom of fruits there was King Banana—“

“Why is a banana a king?” I interject. “Grapes taste better.”

“Grapes are the queen. I’m telling the story here. You can go write an alternate world fanfiction about this when I’m done if you still hate it.” He ignores me rolling my eyes. “So, where was I? Right. King Banana ruled over the fruit kingdom. He was bored since there was peace and stuff so he ordered all his workers to create a giant basket.”

“You’re making shit up as you go, aren’t you?” I smirk. He hasn’t changed at all. He was like this too back in the third grade, back in a time when homework was nonexistent and laughter was a free commodity. In my class he was notorious for creating the most outlandish tales about his so-called daily adventures and everyone, including me, would eat it up.

He gasps. “It’s a true story. Accusations and lies are the only things you give nowadays. Therefore, you suck.” Before I can retort he holds up his hand and plucks the apple out of my hand. He gets a fork and pokes two holes and a smile in the center of them.

“Why are you molesting my apple?” I ask.

“Accusations and lies, I tell you!” He puts the fork and apple down. “One of the workers was Adam, the reddest apple in the world. That’s the fruit I just put a smiley face on. He was in charge of finding the materials for the basket and it was a very important job, so Adam took his job seriously.

“On the day all the materials were completed, Adam praised himself and decided to take a break. He headed to the local pub and ordered broccoli beer. He waited for his order and bam!—out of nowhere, this sexy lemon takes a seat beside him—“

“Sexy lemon?” I cough politely.

“Yes, and one with curves in all the right places at that.” He winces. “That flunked. I’ve never liked that metaphor anyway. Should I continue?”

I shrug. “Go ahead.”

“Yeah. He saw the sexy lemon and asked for her number. The lemon declined with a sympathetic nod. Before he can ask what’s wrong, the bartender—by the way, he’s a kiwi—handed him his drink and the lemon kissed him on the cheek. Adam instantly drank his beer and felt stupid about himself.

“He was chosen by his coworkers to give the basket to the king the day before, and after a nasty hangover, Adam delivered the basket to the Banana King. The banana noticed his discomfort and beer breath and asked him what was wrong. Adam told him about the foxy lemon and the cruel kiwi and the Banana King nodded. The Banana King asked Adam why he thought he was rejected. He said, ‘Well, obviously, ‘cause I’m red and she likes green dudes,’ bitterly.

“The king said, ‘Would you like it if I made you green then?’ Curious, the apple agreed, and he turned Adam green with a snap of his fingers. ‘Go,’ he said, ‘go and make love with that chick.’

“With a strut in his step, Adam headed to the bar again and ignored the odd stares. When he was inside he ordered another broccoli-infused beer from the kiwi and waited for the lemon to show up. His heart skipped a beat when she came two hours later. Thump.” He pounds his fist on the table. “Like that, only harder.

“But the lemon simply looked at him, cocked her head to the side and said, ‘Oh, you’re green now?’”

I blink. “That was surprisingly deep, man.” I clap.

He bows his head with as much modesty as a braggart. “Thank you.”

“But what was the point of telling me that? Are you trying to imply I’m racist?”

“The point?” he repeats. “There was no point.”

“Thank you for wasting two minutes of my life then,” I say.

His eyes creep away from mine. Under the orange lighting his hazel eyes look tangerine. “Well, sorry about that,” he says. “I’m going to make it up to you though, I swear on my life!”

“Huh.” I raise an eyebrow. “Prove it to me then.”

He takes a deep breath and pauses. I do not expect what comes next.

“I didn’t come here just to have an apple. I came here to see you too and profess my undying love, because I’m tired of stalking your Facebook page and thinking of witty retorts to make you laugh. I also think I’ve liked you ever since the seventh grade or even before and I don’t want state borders to separate us. Um, yeah. It would be really nice if you liked me back so I don’t feel like a complete idiot for saying this because I know if I leave now, I won’t say anything else to you for the rest of my life and you’re a really great person and . . . um . . . yeah.”

What.

Why.

When.

How?

Why me?

Bump. Ba-bump-bump-bump. My heart won’t give mercy. I try to calm it by looking at the table below. It’s rather nice and brown. “Are you making this up?” I manage to squeak.

“Nope.” His response is almost silent.

It’s my turn to take a deep breath and a pause. I do not expect what comes next either.

“Good,” I say, and I look up with a hesitant smile.

“Oh,” he says after another flurry of heartbeats.

Why is he speechless? Normally he would be talking at the speed of Usain Bolt. His lack of words makes me even more nervous.

“I think this is the part where you kiss me and we have a happily ever after,” I say.

“Oh. Okay.”

So he kisses me.

 I only hope we have the happy ending.