Vortex

She was peeling a tangerine. The orange skin gathered on the table in a little pile. The way she peeled it in one nice swirl reminded me of Saturn with its rings around it — perfectly circular — and she too, placed in orbit, paying no mind to those around her, especially me. I wanted to talk to her, to ask her why she felt the need to take off all of those little white pieces that clung to the tangerine from the peel. It just seemed so insignificant, so unnecessary. Just like Saturn, serving no purpose, yet still there, existing and rotating in the universe. The tangerine looked like Saturn, with its spiraling peel mimicking the rings circling the planet. I wanted to talk to her, but I couldn’t. The space between us more significant than I imagined, growing every day we didn’t speak. And maybe I didn’t peel a tangerine the same way as she did, but what was so wrong about that? Maybe I didn’t understand why she felt the need to take off those little white strings. And maybe there was something wrong with that.