5.25

A Toyota Supra rolled loudly down the cul-de-sac past me. I pulled back on the dogs' leashes, trying to keep them to my side of the road. The car stopped at the edge of the orange grove and two men got out. They walked into the oranges, three trees deep, and left their car running. Two minutes later, they drove past me again, leaving for points west. I can only assume they were stealing oranges.
The sunset washed the earth with pink-orange light, and the wind filled the trees with a soft sound of oceans. The dogs pulled lightly at the leash, eager to see anything, everything, as long as it smelled interesting and wasn't at home. The evening air was already chill with no moisture to speak of holding onto the heat. I walked the dogs home and pulled my brother's oranges out of his tree with a long claw on a stick. I haven't even plugged in his fantastically expensive juicer. I think I've juiced fifteen citrus now, by hand, with a terrible juicer that feels at any moment like it will fragment into thin slivers of plastic across the floor, spilling the juice I've fought for and forcing me to mop. I stop, my hands wet with juice, the dogs dancing with each other (mouths wide open and lightly encompassing each other's heads), and thought back to the boys in the Supra who stole for their fruit.
I drew no conclusions. All I know is that I have the taste of oranges on my lips, and so must they. It's strange to have that connection with two people I will never meet.