Habit

    She peeled an orange for him every morning, a ritual she enjoyed, even looked forward to: the aroma of the citrus, the taut skin releasing under her fingernails, the hard, but pliable skin uncovering the soft curved fruit--every orange like every other orange, but different, individual, this orange sweeter--or more sour--than yesterday's, or juicier, or, inexplicably, too dry.

    "Good orange today," he said most days, well, every day. It was part of their ritual, their practice, their entry into the day. He made the coffee, she opened the orange, split it in half, and the morning began.

~

    But his question this morning stopped her. "Why do we do this?

    "What?"

    "No, I said why." He held up the naked, peeled orange, positioned it like a particularly valuable gem, or maybe an egg about to be boiled. "We do this every morning...but, why?"

    "Why?"

    "That's what I said, 'Why?'"

    "Easy to peel."

    "Well, yes, if you do it."

    "Habit." She knew that five-letter word would stop the questions, would elicit a harumph or swift sectioning of the apparently inexplicable existence of the morning orange. Habit! She knew he was dismissive of habits, of doing something, anything, that was predictable. Because of course, he was too thoughtful for habit, too considered, too smart. A thoughtful planner, not a slave of habit.

    Well, yes. He was a man with a deep sense of propriety, of purpose, of the well-executed plan, which he was now extolling in excruciating detail without realizing that his well-rehearsed monologue on the insufficiency of habit, blind habit, the knee-jerk quality of habit would mean that he was consuming his last pre-peeled orange.