She walks slowly into the kitchen, heads to the refrigerator and opens it. Then she picks up an orange from the top shelf in her right hand and takes it over to the sink. She runs the hot water tap with her left hand and carefully washes the orange, ignoring the temperature of the water. She turns off the tap, picks up the red dishcloth and dries the orange, taking great care over every movement.

She picks up the dark wooden chopping board and the small paring knife before returning to the living room. She sits with her back to the balcony, facing the cabinet that belonged to her grandmother. She puts the orange on the board in front of it and places the knife to the right. She puts both hands on the table and breathes deeply for several minutes. Then she picks up the knife and starts to peel the orange from the top, where the skin meets the stalk.

Very carefully, she peels in a spiral, trying to remove as much of the pith along with it as she can. Slowly. It takes her a quarter of an hour. Just when she’s about to finish she reveals her first emotion. Ha, all in one go, I’m going to have a good mother in law. But I wanted a good man, damn it.

She finishes peeling the orange, puts down the knife and goes to the kitchen. She comes back with a small plastic bag, puts the peel in the bag and goes back into the kitchen to throw it away. She comes back, dissatisfied with something. She takes the orange and the chopping board back into the kitchen and puts the board in the sink frowning in disgust. Then she takes a plate from a cupboard above and puts the orange on it. She goes back into the living room, sits down and adjusts the chair, the importance of it being just right cannot be overstated.

She gently pries open the orange from above with both thumbs, taking care not to rupture any of the segments. First, she splits it in two, inspects both halves closely and separates the segments a little. She chooses the smallest one. She has to split one of the halves into smaller parts to get to it. She gets her fingers around it and removes what was left of the pith. She puts it down on the plate and puts the rest of the orange down on the table. She picks up the knife and carefully pries up the skin of the segment, just a little, at one end. Then she peels the skin from one side with her fingers. 

She puts the plate down in front of her, picks up the segment very gently between the thumb and index finger of her left hand and with her right removes one of the little bubbles that form inside the segment. She puts it in her mouth and savours it slowly, like royal jelly. Two minutes later, she tries another bubble. She goes on like that, one bubble at a time without touching the one next to it, bringing them to her mouth with surgical precision. She doesn’t drop a single one, the shock that would be. She’s at it for hours.   

She slips into a trance within a trance, silently talking to herself. Gustavo, you son of a bitch, piece of shit, why did you fuck me over you bastard? Two minutes pass, another bubble. You idiot, I loved you. Two minutes, another bubble. Can’t you see I was playing hard to get? You fool. She pauses. Takes another bubble. What’s Marisa got that I don’t? Moron. Bubble. Drop dead, you bastard.

What is it with you, Fredy? You only know how to fuck? Because you never talk. Pause. Another bubble. But after doing it a couple of times you just want to get back to sleep. You little shit, you only live in the moment. Bubble. Your moment. Another bubble. You take other people’s moments. Bubble.  

The telephone rings. For the fourth time. Valeria automatically gets up and goes to the bathroom to pee before heading to her bedroom to unplug the telephone. She returns to her chair. 

Fucking men. Bubble. I should become a nun. Bubble. I’m never going out with another man again. Bubble. Bubble. That way I won’t get hurt. Women neither. Bubble.

I’m never sleeping with anyone ever again. Another bubble. And I’m not seeing that therapist either. Bubble. Fucking quack. Bubble. Pause. All you ever do, you bastard, is make me talk about sex and take my money. Bubble. Four years. Another bubble. 

How have I changed? Bubble. Pause. Bubble. I was happier before. Bubble. You’ll say that this is part of the process. Bubble. Long pause. Why don’t you just fuck off? Bubble. You’re married with kids, you have money, you bastard. Another bubble. 

A bubble. Valeria looks at the orange. There are about twelve segments to go. Which is good. Another bubble. Valeria’s on her third segment. It’s morning. Sunday. She’s a little tired but her hunger has been sated.

There’s a loud knock at the door.  

“Valeria, it’s me, Melu. I know you’re in there. I’ve been calling you since yesterday.”

Valeria swears. She walks slowly over to the door and opens it. 

Melu isn’t alone, she’s accompanied by a tall, older man.

“This is Ramiro,” says Melu. “Can we come in?”

“We-ll, fine, OK.”

“You look tired.  Let me make breakfast,” says Melu, heading for the kitchen.

Valeria is left along in the living room with Ramiro, who’s looking at her.

“What do you do?” Ramiro asks.

“I’m a writer. You?” she asks impatiently. 

I’m a psychiatrist. Before Melu comes back (she told me all about you, that you’re a great girl): I have a house in Tigre. Would you like to spend next weekend there with me? I’d love that.”

Melu is coming back from the kitchen. Valeria looks him in the eyes and answers:

“Yes.”

Copyright David Mibashan. Translated by Kit Maude.