He has two oranges. Two exceptionally tasty, ripe, juicy orange balls of goodness. The perfect colour and texture with drops of water still on them, almost as if they were picked mere moments ago, right before your very eyes. You don't know how they would taste, but it must be absolutely amazing. He's holding them both in one hand and we are standing in a line at the grocery store. In your grocery cart, amongst many groceries, you have a clear, plastic bag filled with several oranges. They are small and feel a little mushy. You aren't certain they'll taste very good, but they were all you could find. You notice that he looks visibly agitated.

Frowning, hand on his head, staring intently at the floor as if he is deep in thought. Suddenly, he turns to you.

"Could you hold these oranges for me?"

His tone is brusque, almost impolite. Before you can respond, he thrusts his oranges into your hand and walks quickly and purposefully back into the nearest grocery aisle, directly behind us. It's the bread aisle, and you have a clear view of its entire length. Baffled, you look at the oranges in your hand, then back up at the aisle. He's gone.

A slightly harassed but good-natured sounding voice then rings out from behind you.

"Next please!"

It's the cashier, and the customer before you, is now walking out of the store with their groceries in hand. You are next in line. Seeing that the cashier looks a little impatient and not wanting to inconvenience them, you hurry forward and begin unloading your groceries from the shopping cart. Lastly you place down your bag of oranges. You notice how unappetizing they look. You then look at the two oranges in your hand. Bright orange, seemingly perfectly ripe. They feel firm, but not hard. Just the way you like your oranges. It occurs to you that these are perhaps the finest looking pair of oranges you've ever seen, their perfect nature almost taunting you with those old, soggy, and slightly discoloured fruits.

An idea then occurs to you. A scandalous, fiendish, delightful little idea. What if you took these oranges for yourself? You know you will enjoy them. You look back at the bread aisle for any sign of their original owner, but he's nowhere to be found. You look back at the cashier and in horror see they've almost scanned everything on the belt. Behind them a bagger works feverishly, thrusting good after good into paper bags with terrifying efficiency. Frantic, you again look at the oranges, *his* oranges, in your hand. They look incredible. You realize you want them more than you've ever wanted something before. You need to try those oranges.

A second passes, but it feels like an eternity. There's nothing and nobody in the world except you and those oranges. Your oranges. You hear a noise. Did you imagine it? You must have. You're soaring in a sky filled with cotton-candy clouds, an orange sun spills across the horizon. It's beautiful. You hear another noise. Ignore it. It's so beautiful. You reach out for the sun...

"Are you going to give me those oranges or not?"

You wrench your gaze away from the oranges.

With wet eyes you find the cashier, looking at you expectantly. They're holding your bag of squashy, pitiful, disgusting oranges in their hand. One hand hangs stupidly in front of you. In the other, the two oranges.

You blink rapidly, shaken out of your reverie. A chill runs down your back as the world seems to melt away, leaving naught but the frowning store clerk, those two heavenly pieces of citrus, and the humming of sodium lights, painting everything in a yellow, viscerally uncomfortable light. You're suddenly, instantly aware of how uncomfortable the sagging, sad little store is. The air is canned, the desk is overwhelmingly sticky, and the drone of the air conditioning seems to blank out your mind. An intense, overwhelming pang of abandonment spikes through your heart. A bead of sweat drips off your brow.

"Ah, uhm, yeah, I, uh. Yeah, take them."

You twitch a little as the fruits drop into the clerk's hands, a grunt of annoyance their only response. You take the opportunity to surreptitiously look behind your shoulder: nothing but isles, isles, and isles. Bile rises.

"Sir? SIR."

Coughing with surprise, you once again bring your gaze to meet the cashier's. Their eyes bore a hole through you, clearly fed up of your shit. Steeling yourself, you make the purchase, mumbling an apology as you hurriedly collect your groceries. You contemplate waiting at the door for him, but the piercing glare of the cashier inclines you otherwise. You look down at your hands, at those magnificent, lofty specimens of citrus, as the fresh air and sunlight wash over you like an oasis. You glance back at the sad little store. Nobody in sight. You look at the oranges again. They ARE really good looking... You shrug.

"Mine now, I guess."

You walk to your car. Something's bothering you, but you're not sure what. You unload your groceries into the trunk. On a whim you decide to place the oranges on the seat behind you. As you step into the car, a chill crawls up your back, a dark lump rises in your throat. You stop and pause, still holding onto the handle of your car door, your foot firmly placed on the asphalt outside. Are you being watched? You look out at the parking lot, but there's no one around.

"That's odd."

You'd think there'd be someone at this time of day, but the parking lot looks eerily empty, as if some sort of apocalyptic scenario unfolded. There's not even that many cars. Frowning, you look up. The sun is swollen. There are no birds. The clouds burn orange. You look back at your oranges. You don't feel safe anymore, something is wrong. You swiftly sit down, close the door with a firm grip, and speed off.

You speed the whole way home, mind still fixated on the events that unfolded. You just can't get the bizarre interaction with *him* out of your head. That unnerving trip through the parking lot. Something about that just wasn't right. You can't stop thinking about the oranges. Those perfect creations. Should you have taken them? Your eyes drift towards the next intersection, fixating themselves upon the red light almost in front of you. You stop, neurons starting to fire faster and faster. Is it your conscious that's troubling you?

For a moment you lose yourself in the thought, mind racing and trying to analyse the events that transpired. You start to turn around and look at them, sitting on your back seat, looking as succulent as ever, your field of view slowly shrinking while the background seems to drift further and further away. Something clicks in your mind and you quickly turn your gaze towards the road. Green light. You drive the rest of the way with your eyes locked on the road.

You pull into the driveway. Without looking in the backseat, you walk to the trunk. You unload your groceries and carry them up to your house. As you open the door your roommate greets you.

"Hey."

You bring the groceries to the fridge and start putting them away. After finishing you fold up the bags and stash them in the pantry.

You slowly walk to your room, sigh, try to focus on the work you've been meaning to get done. Everytime you set your hands on the keyboard those juicy, luscious oranges float into the front of your thoughts, distracting you from what you should be doing. You look outside. The sun flashes in the corner of your eye, burning furiously even as it sinks below the mountains to the west, like a last, defiant roar to the world.

You go back downstairs, hesitating as you grab your car keys off the desk. You look towards the front door in apprehension. With every step towards it, your heart seems to quicken. By the time you have your hands on the handle, you're sweating like you just ran a marathon, you can feel the heartbeat in your throat. Some unknowable voice, deep within the primitive pattern-recognition caveman brain, screams at you to retreat. And yet, the thought of those oranges won't relinquish you from their conquest. You stare, longing, into the orange light at the end of the driveway. Five meters lie between you and the most delectable fruits known to man, and yet, you can't seem to force yourself to turn the damn handle.

You reliquish it with a shaky gasp, and collapse into a sofa. Taking a few minutes to steel your resolve, you decide to grab your roommate's Swiss Army knife off the counter. Emboldened by the reassuring feel of cheap mass produced steel, you stand up and turn the handle in a single, smooth motion. The prey drive, honed by millenia of evolution, screams at you, but you are oblivious, completely entranced by the objects of your obsession. A quick glance across the street shows no living beings, not even a stray cat or bird. You walk to the car. You bend over, grasping the handle of the car door...