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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: profile


03.12.24


Yesterday we went to Sligo, where I scurried from shop to shop: embroidery floss, moisturiser, contact lens cleaner, pregnancy test*, two types of cheese. I bought a wee orchid, which was too small for its ceramic pot. When feeling blue, acquire flowers, skincare, and cheese.

Under the scum of spitting rain, the town looked grim, save for pink clouds of cherry blossoms, glimpsed here and there over walls. Weary of the weather, of looking at things, of even my unwashed hair, I waited for the husband on a bench in the mall, among all the other tired or waiting people, and read a book.** A little girl shyly approached me. “Can I touch it?”, she lisped, pointing at the wee orchid beside me, as if it was a dog. I smiled, my weariness dissipating in a child’s momentary pleasure.

After returning home, I took the pregnancy test: negative. Phew?! I expected heart-pangs, but … nothing. Not even the faintest wistfulness.*** I guess I’m no longer grieving. Because grief can pass. Because your desires and needs will change. Because I must adapt to circumstances, regardless of difficulty.

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* I didn’t go to any of the three pharmacies in our town because people are nosey, especially about people they know.

**Alibis: Essays on Elsewhere by André Aciman. On Venice: “Palaces stand together like majestic old dowagers with rotting teeth and magnificent hairdos who do not fall partly because they’ve learned to lean together for support but also because, despite their squat, wizened forefronts, they possess the weary certainty of the aging rich who know that they’re not going anywhere. You, however, are just passing through.”

*** Still, I can't hazard a guess at how I'd feel if the test result had been positive.





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