Breakfast for Paul

His sallow complexion resembled a mackerel that had been left out on the counter for too long. I observed his face from the dim kitchen, and was left with the distinct impression that I shouldn’t wander too close lest an unpleasant stench invade my nostrils. He looked as though he had never felt the freshness of a crunchy apple, nor the cleansing light of the sun; as though he was perhaps embalmed in the same oil paint that he worked with all day long, creases of water through oil, saturated with fatigue and unease. That face looked at me with what I perceived as helplessness.  

Let me get you something, I said quickly, if only to avoid eye contact with this miserable wretch.

I rifled through my netted bag and pulled out two oranges.

Perfect. Sunlit orbs brimming with juice, juice filled with vitamins. This man ought to be bathing in them, I thought, as I peeled one nimbly, relishing the glory that is the smell of citrus released into a room. I left it unsegmented because I knew the visceral joy of unsticking the neat slices oneself and popped it onto an old white dish with the other, still unpeeled. Perhaps he’d like to peel it himself and experience the limonene wafting up from its waxy, pleasing carapace. I plodded over silently and left the fruit in front of the squeezed rind of his body. He raised his head slightly and nodded what may have been a thanks. Knowing how much he disliked interaction, I smiled thinly with what I thought looked like sympathy, though I didn’t understand him at all, and left.

As I turned around to close the door, I saw the oranges gleam in the slant of sunshine that floated in, as alive as I was, even though they were unstemmed from their trees and removed from their groves. What rot, I sniffed to myself. Spending time around artists was decaying my brain with poetic blather.

The next week, when I came in with my cleaning supplies, I saw that he was up and painting. He turned around and smiled at me, the smile of a person released from a cage he had imagined. I’ve painted some oranges, he said. Come see.

Oranges? I hesitated. I hated the natura morte paintings that were all the rage then. What on earth was the point of painting fruit? We had real fruit. Did it need to live on in a canvas as if it were my beloved grandmother? It felt macabre to me, depicting things we plucked, which would decay. It was foolish to try to capture their likeness before they molded.

Yes, oranges, he said, smiling gently.

I approached with trepidation; I had never been invited to look at his work before. And there they were, the oranges. Cascading, rippling, emerging from the canvas, emerging like his gentle smile, the sun in both of them. My eyes felt overwhelmed. I saw what I saw, isn’t that the only thing one can see? But he had painted all the ways in which they might appear. It was as if he had found what it must be to be an orange, and piece by piece, assembled it in paint.

I fainted, all the pieces of me toppling down as though the bottom of whatever contained me had given up temporarily. When I woke up, he offered me an orange slice, and I accidentally bit his hand instead of the citrus.

Sai Pradhan (she/her) is a writer and artist. She has lived, studied, and/or worked in Washington DC, London, Edinburgh, Los Angeles, Louisville, Shanghai, Mumbai, and Hong Kong. Her writing has been published in several journals like The Iowa Review, The Prairie Schooner, JMWW, YOLO Journal, Ghost Parachute, and others. Find her work at www.saipradhanart.com/publications.

Published April 15 2025