Squeezing the orange revealed nothing. Alfie could never remember if oranges were supposed to be firm or soft. The orange in his hand had a little give; it could go either way. Perhaps fruit salad was a foolish dinner choice.
Alfie needed a professional. He could see the stout produce attendant patrolling the melon stacks, considering Alfie with disfavor, like a police officer contemplating a tattooed youth loitering outside the mini-mart. Submitting the orange for inspection to this authority seemed embarrassing, yet necessary.
Alfie began to fumble with his coupon book to see if he should change his dinner plans, when he sensed someone approaching. Figuring the produce attendant was ready to make inquiries, he asked without lifting his head.
“How do you know if an orange is ripe?”
Alfie looked up, into the eyes of a young woman. Alfie felt they were the first eyes he had ever really seen. Continue reading “An Unripe Suitor”