Well.
I wrote about oranges one day—and because of that, I was more aware. More awake to oranges a day or two later and the next day as well. Took advantage of a theme during a busy week. No sense of synchronicity or connection. Just a small literary and perhaps psychological device. A bit of laziness.

I was going to write today of the de Menil museums in Houston. Of chapels. Of art.

But first we visited the Whole Foods flagship store. I stood as my friend examined an oddly named fruit--plumagos? I stood at ease, preoccupied, detached. Some fifteen feet away, a small movement in a pyramid of oranges attracted my gaze. No one was standing near them. There was no one between me and the stack. A single orange dropped from near the top of the pile to one layer below.

A pause, then one and another and another, they rocked then rolled in a narrow fan of directions, bouncing from the stack to the floor. Such a quiet racket. Maybe 25 of the oranges. I was too far away to stem the flow. They pushed toward me.

Two workers appeared from opposite directions and started to pick them up. I stooped to help. One genial fellow who tossed them like softballs to the stack said, ‘They were chasing after you. They know a beautiful woman when they see one.’

He took his knife, chop chop, offered us crescents of the plumago to sample. We thanked him, pitched the peel into a shiny metal trashcan.

As we walked away, it hit me. Oranges.

I don’t know why I am writing about this. I don’t know why oranges might take on life and ambulation in my presence. I don’t know the point of the story.

I thought I was in charge of the orange stories. The orange stories are in charge of me.