Second Post of No-longer-absconded Angela

I stand, post-volunteer, abutting the trash can. The school is ivied, but autumn turns verdancy to rattling shadows. They rattle now, marimba-like, lacking only an accompanying melody. But then again, so melancholy a marimba-sound is music enough. I drop an orange peel into the trash can. It lands on some greasy newspaper, perhaps the oily corpse of a meal of fish'n'chips; it's cushioned amidst garbage. Fruity, dappled leather hiding gems of juice inside. I glimpse the revealed treasure, now hastily peeling - frenetically wiling the covering to cooperate. The shadows of leaves rattle again, but I scarcely feel that breeze of a breath - thinking solely of the anticipated orange. The last peel portion gives and I split the orb in half. Juice squirts. The Autumn sun graces me, trash can, scattered orange juice, newly plucked orange slice. I examine it, almost like a dog will study its food or prey before devouring. Then I plant it inside my lips. The orange slice is laying like a lover in my mouth, heavy, cottony, on top of my tongue. I haven't yet bitten down. I ache to, but part of me knows that after the first bite is taken, the experience will be banal. Id takes over. I chomp. Glorious juice floods my mouth, lover is loved - but my one-night-stand of sorts is over. With oranges, it can only ever be a one night stand. I throw the remainder of the orange in the garbage - the rest of the potential first bites who simply weren't chosen. They go the way of the rancid newspaper and discarded peels. I resume my walk; the leaves are pseudo-marimbas - but better.