The Orange

I wrote this originally as a comedy, then it evolved somehow into an extended metaphor of something else... A bit absurd at the end, though. Enjoy (or not). And please, feedback if possible.
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My children are hungry and I must feed them.
I wake up early in the morning and listen to their grumbling stomachs and cries and roll myself out of bed. My hair is a mess; I run my hands haphazardly through it, give up, and dress lazily in jeans and a t-shirt. Heck, why not? I'm only going shopping.

I walk into the grocery store past a brown-haired man in a blue shirt who lounges back against the wall. Someone's been cleaning; the display window is fuzzy through a haze of spray. A billboard shouts at me, Oranges 30% Off! Good deal.
A tinkling bell rings as I open the door and step in. The gray-haired man behind the counter peers briefly and suspiciously at me over his smudged reading lenses, then goes back to adjusting and organizing the shelves. I look around. In the center of the room is an enormous cascade of oranges. I run over, mouth salivating.
I love oranges. Can you tell?
Searching closely through the mass of fruits, I notice their blemishes. Many are bruised through careless middleman handling. Others slightly darkened from natural overripeness; still others are yet tinged green. None are symmetrical; some are oblong, almost resembling pudgy lemons, while others simply flattened on one side from their crates. I look up and up, higher and higher, as my stomach drops lower and lower towards my feet. Finally, after all of my pitiful reserves of hope have been lost, my breath catches in my throat.
The one at the pinnacle of the pyramid calls to me. It is perfect, its spherical flawlessness glorified in the beam of fluorescent light shining down from above. I hear angels singing. This one is meant for me. I stand on my tiptoes, fingers outreached, and snag it.

I finish my shopping, pausing only once for a lengthy amount of time to decide which cut of meat to select at the butcher's station. The children get their usual soup, but today I deserve a treat, so they are lucky. I buy soupbones thick with meat and ribbons of fat to make a stew, a carton of milk, three packages of cookies, a newspaper, a dozen eggs, and several sandwiches. The graying man peers at me intently over his glasses as I pass over my money and snorts upon receiving my coupons. As I walk out, the bell tinkles again. I make a sharp about-face to the right to avoid a small boy walking his dog, and head down the sidewalk towards home. It is a good day.
A sun-browned man in a blue shirt brushes by me. I stumble, my arms lifting involuntarily to keep my balance, and my bags fall to the ground. I curse as I try to juggle them and fail miserably in the process. One of the paper bags splits; the perfect orange, its heavenly sphere like a miniature sun shining in the midst of the dull grey street, rolls across the sidewalk, bounces off the edge to halt enticingly, supported between two rails of the sewer grate. The sky is blue. The day is beautiful. My face is not.
The quandary that now lies before me is this: Should I rescue the perfect orange, and satiate my aesthetic cravings for all eternity, or pick up the groceries that will feed my children?
The choice is clear.
I grab the orange.
A new wave of people are storming across the street towards me; I do not care. My fingers clamp firmly over the even firmer, perfect fruit. My orange. I put it in my voluminous coat pocket. It is safe. I breathe a sigh of relief and tuck stray wisps of hair back behind my ear, looking around self-consciously, guiltily, to make sure nobody noticed my premier selection. Then I turn back to get my groceries from the ground.
The bag with the eggs is beyond salvation; I can see the gooey yolks and whites trickling out, staining the thick brown crudeness of the paper. All else in it--my newspaper, the paper-wrapped sandwiches, the packages of meat I'd so painstakingly selected from the butcher--is ruined. I leave the soggy mess in the middle of the street, recover the dry foods that are rolling around from the other bag, and hurry home. Victory is mine. People curse as they hop around the bag and trip over each other's feet. A homeless man praises me as he fishes out the sandwiches and puts them in his pocket for later consumption, licking his dirty fingers free of yolk. His fingers probably have not been this clean since he lost his home.
I have done a good deed today. I have rescued my orange.

I get home and the children are crying. Food? Who cares? I toss a few cans of Campbell's on the counter, tell them to heat them whenever they're hungry, and hasten to my room and shut the door. I take the orange from my pocket. Two streaks of grime from the sewer mar the beautiful surface, and I rub them away with my thumbs. I lift the fruit to my nose and inhale. The fragrance of citrus permeates the air. I am in love.
Someone bangs on the door and wakens me from my orange reverie. I go the door.
WHAT?!
The brown-eyed man in the blue shirt shakes his fist at me. Calls me a stupid woman, an irresponsible mother, and tells me he's called the police. I grumble pacifying nonsense at him, point at the orange. His eyes widen. Good. Let the orange instill its awe in him, and let him leave me alone. Shoo.
The children have shut up, their greedy faces crammed one each into a can of soup. I hear slurping, burping, and smacking of little lips. I retreat to my room and hole up again. Dear Lord…dear, dear Fruit.

Time passes. The clock's hands whirl around, the cat's eyes twitch thousands of times, and its tail wags so often it becomes a blur. I cannot take my gaze from the Orange.

Sometime later, rather sooner than later, I hear another chorus of wails. And then after that they all disappear, one by one. The Orange is infiltrating my thoughts. I cannot help myself. Its perfect circle is emblazoned into my eyes, into my mind; its fragrance increasing. My fingers as I clutch it feel it give a bit at last, and I loosen my hold, startled. I do not want to be the cause of its final misshape.

Something moves in the corner of my eye; the door to my room opens. In wafts the disgusting odors of urine and feces, pushing back the Orange's power. The Fruit fights back, its color darkening with anger as it exudes stronger and stronger scent, but no longer is it the wondrous fragrance of the Californian sun, but rather more pungent, as if drawing in the fetid aroma to strengthen itself. Such a cunning creature. I smile.

But in the end, the odors overpower my Orange. It gives way, in my hands, shriveling and weakening, giving between my fingers as I try to hold it in its perfect sphere. Flies crawl over my hands, but I do not wave them away. They must be minions of the Orange, here to care for it. As am I.

Mold, a fine blue dust of a mold, grows on it, spreads to my fingers, spreads to the flies that have fallen asleep in the Orange's embrace. It flows up my arms, blanketing me in its fuzziness. I feel loved.

As the fur gradually covers my vision, I give the Orange a final squeeze to ensure it that I will always be there for it. And finally, after all my nurturing, it pushes back.