Smelling the Oranges

by Madeleine Herbert (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

Making a local connection Spain

You've been in Granada for six months now. You've watched the pom pom trees lining Gran Via gain blossom then gain firm, ripe fruit, and now you walk the flesh-splattered pavements. You took part in the newcomer’s rite of passage, collecting one of the city’s free snacks, a surreptitious glance over your shoulder. The thick peel came away from the stolen fruit in chunks, and a sharp bright scent rewarded you, the thief whose hands it had begun to stain. But Granada's oranges always have the last laugh. The intensely bitter juice and flesh of those orange jewels give earwax a run for its money. Today you’re on your period and it’s a really heavy one. You're an orange tree too. It’s not painful this time, which is good. It’s also good because you were really worried you were pregnant. Maybe you were even a bit pregnant because it was really late. Anyway, you certainly aren’t now. Which is good. You were really worried with this one; the last few days your head has been filled with incognito google searches and new information about ovulation and implantation bleeding and cervix position during conception. After leaving Boogaclub with that man with his dark exciting eyes and his funny little smile, you weren't very careful. It was the first time you had done that in a while. And the next morning he walked you around the streets of the Albaicin, Granada's Arabic quarter, pointing out the patterned blue tiles that marked his primary school, the teashop where his father worked with its low tables and water features, the San Nicolas square with its view of the golden Alhambra, where he and his friends used to smoke the marijuana his Mum grew in the garden. Suddenly those holiday streets became home streets, full of somebody's life memories. You tripped along behind him, looking at the postcard views with a new intensity. So you’re not pregnant, but you're also not happy this week. You can tell by the number of times per hour you’ve been unlocking your phone, to check for that little red bubble. But he hasn’t messaged since you saw each other for the second time last week. No 'Chao lindaaa', no 'que haces hoy amiga?' And you hate that you want him to. He isn’t important. But you do want him to, because maybe you’re a bit proud. And you liked his realness, next to your foreignness. You bet he has never tried to eat one of those oranges. He already knew their theft would be bitter. Did you like him? Or did you like what he represented? In any case, rejection by silence feels empty and silly. You feel silly. See you just checked again. And anyway he was really nice – you liked him. However much you try to tell yourself you didn't. You liked how he looked at you. You liked the stupid conversation, inspired by lack of common mother tongue, involving train impressions, that you had when your noses were inches apart on your single pillow afterwards. You didn't want to marry him. And you certainly don't want to have his hijos – your Mum would never forgive you for having babies in Spain. But you had a nice time. And now you're annoyed that just by liking him you slipped him the power and a week of your happiness as you walked him to the estacion de autobuses. When he found your hand and held it in his pocket all the way there and suddenly the miles between your hometowns melted. You'll see him again, in about three months. Long enough after your period came and you forgot him happily. He'll be in the club where you met, at the end of Gran Via, following another girl towards the door, tips of their fingers just touching as she moves him away. You'll catch his eye as he brushes past you, and you'll smile warmly. Because you won't mind. And you'll walk home, back to your little Andalusian apartment with its central courtyard and its cupboard full of bottles rich green olive oil from years of temporary guests, and you'll smell the orange blossom filling the pre-morning sky.