Half, Without Asking

She didn't look up the whole time.

Just her hands working the peel in one

long strip — a patient, unhurried climb

from the stem. Nothing undone

about it, nothing wasted.

I watched the tendons move

under her wrist. I watched, and tasted

something close to envy. The groove

her hands had for this — the way

they knew exactly where to push.

The pith she left on the tray

between us. Then, without a rush,

she held half across the table.

No eye contact. No ceremony.

Just — here. As if she were able

to give things away that easily,

without it meaning anything

except that she had more than she needed.

I took it. Sat there wondering

what I'm so careful with. What I've conceded

to not knowing. The fluorescent hum.

The smell of it. Her hands at rest,

already on to something. Some

version of herself, expressed

without effort, without a thought.

I ate the orange. Didn't say

what I'd been thinking. What it brought

up in me. What I'd give away

to be that easy in my hands.