Citrus Ridge

Staring at dry mugs on the dish rack wasn't going to turn up any new terrain. I dropped down to the quartz counter, skirted the cutting board, and marched toward the wide white fruit bowl. Parked right in the middle was a hefty navel orange, round and dimpled like coarse sandpaper. I wedged the brass tip of my paperclip pole into the peel to steady my stance, found an easy toehold on the lower curve, and worked my boots up the slope. The pebbled skin had surprisingly solid grip, releasing a sharp, sweet burst of citrus oil every time I leaned in. Sitting on the woody stem nub gives a clean view of the entire counter.