He steps quietly into her unlit kitchen. He slowly pulls a chair from the table and helps himself. He removes a small tangerine from his jacket pocket, knowing there won’t be one in her fridge, knowing full well she’s allergic.
He meticulously peels the ripe piece of citrus, leaving behind long strips of sticky rind.
He hears the garage door open, tilts his head. She’s home unexpectedly early.
He collects the rinds, leaving a neat pile at the table’s center. He then slips out the back door just as the house lights flick on.
Won’t she be surprised, he thinks.
The Weekday One Hundred 