a remembered orange
by Christopher Robey
On whaling ships, the order of things was brute simple: if there was an orange, the captain and his mates got the flesh, the crewmen got the rind, and the pettiest man got no orange at all—maybe the smell if, all told, it could be discerned above the unwashed grime and slaughter-musk and steaming kettles of rendered blubber.
I’d like to think that while the captain spat seeds, the mates dribbled juice on the table, and the crewmen squatted on their sea chests swishing rind tea, the petty man, dunking hardtack in his coffee and plucking drowned roaches from the top, could content himself knowing that all, in due time, would be left with only the memory of a divided orange. Meanwhile, the last he may have savored sat undivided in his palm.
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