[RO] Romance
“Orange”
Vendors have their art lined up in the streets, splashes of color vibrant under the tent awnings. She walks by leisurely eyeing their pieces. Sparkling, blown glass vases tempt her to reach out and touch them with her fingertips. Bright paintings pop out at her and others are more subtle, their beauty hidden among swipes of pastel watercolor.
She peels an orange as she walks. The citrus scents the air. She drops each piece into her bag one at a time. A sculptor looks at her while he works. His hands smoothly move over the clay as he is looking. Each sculpture is a part of him, an evolution of himself. His hair is dark and curls up around the nape of his neck. His jaw line is strong, and his cheekbones are high like a beautiful woman’s. He is wearing a sleeveless shirt. It would look cheap, misplaced on anyone else but on him it looks right. His clothing is the tautness of his muscles as his arms slightly move with each small motion.
She glances at his work, small pieces, some of them odd looking, almost mythological. He is still looking at her. She stares back, defiantly, and pops a piece of orange into her mouth. He stares at her lips, wet with sweet juice, and she walks away.
A man with knotty, gray hair, dressed in an ancient tuxedo, plays a trumpet next to the sculptor’s tent. His trumpet case lays open in front of him on the street. Several silver and bronze coins lay scattered on the red velvet. She sits on the curb across the street to listen to the music. The sculptor still watches her, the trumpet player watches her as if he has been playing for her all along, and a small child walks by asking her parents for an orange.
She knows that the sculptor is still looking at her as she finishes the orange. He is waiting. She doesn’t satisfy him with a return stare. She prefers to taunt him, to place herself within reach, yet not.
A middle-aged woman distracts him with questions about his sculptures. His eyes desperately fight between being polite to the woman or continuing this silent dance with the pretty, young woman sitting on the curb. She asks several questions and reels him in.
The song ends, her orange eaten, and he looks up to see her gone. Her dollar lays in the trumpet case and she has already walked several vendors down. Small samples of wine are handed out at the end of the street. She sips a dark, flowery flavor, and then a light, crisp flavor, next a bubbly fruit flavor. She drinks them all, they settle on her tongue like paint on a painter’s pallet. She is braver. She slowly walks down the other side.
The sculptor looks down and away with a sense of urgency as he continues to work and greet customers. He tells himself that she must walk back through. There is not any other way out. A woman with a poodle walk by, a small family with a stroller, and several couples. Finally, he sees her hair blowing in the breeze and her light step.
He gets up from his stool, determined not to let her get away. She looks at him, and he grabs her hand, pulling her into the warm tent. The sun sparkles off his eyes. Small specks appear. They are the dark green of his sculptures. He lets the tent flaps drop down and kisses her, this mysterious woman who likes to play. He kisses her until his tongue is also a pallet of flowers and fruit and his lip are as sweet as an orange.