Oranges are the only fruit. Suck on that Jeanette.

I had thought to bring you oranges to soothe your ill stomach. But then the day got in the way, the lassitudes of not doing and the unbearable burden of what I should do, the furthest thing of which was bringing you food, which you would not have wanted anyway, and not from me at least. I do not feel I know you because all the more I adore you I worry myself with the thought of the discrepancy; that you hate me and the chasm widens between that. I do not know if you do love or hate me, my laziness and passivity, my various attributes. But I adore the soft roundness of your stomach and the down turn of your soft mouth, and your raucous laugh, and you. But I did not bring the oranges. And I do not know if you are truly ill.