Narrative Essay On Margaret Bread

Valencia, 1813 The aroma of freshly peeled oranges drifted through the cramped space of the flower shop, moonlight streaming gently from a nearby window. María couldn’t tear her eyes away from Noelle’s fingers. Sharp nails–like talons, she thought–cut deftly underneath the fruit’s soft rind, filling the air around them with fresh, crisp perfume.

When the peel fell to the floor, all Maria could look at was the pulp gathered under the woman’s fingernail.

“You’re quiet, mon chérie.” Her voice was as clean as the citrus bouquet; she was distracted. “Talk to me. I love your voice.” Her fingers made quick work of the fruit in her hands, peeling it apart with a slick, satisfying sound; she handed one half to María, who accepted it graciously.

“It is not so great. Besides, I have nothing

María couldn’t tear her eyes away from Noelle’s fingers. Sharp nails–like talons, she thought–cut deftly underneath the fruit’s soft rind, filling the air around them with fresh, crisp perfume.

When the peel fell to the floor, all Maria could look at was the pulp gathered under the woman’s fingernail.

“You’re quiet, mon chérie.” Her voice was as clean as the citrus bouquet; she was distracted. “Talk to me. I love your voice.” Her fingers made quick work of the fruit in her hands, peeling it apart with a slick, satisfying sound; she handed one half to María, who accepted it graciously.

“It is not so great. Besides, I have nothing to talk about...” Her voice was unexpectedly bashful, the words cracking in her throat. In embarrassment, she quickly began eating her half of the orange. The biting sweetness burst on her tongue, making up for the words she couldn't say. Noelle laughed, despite this, delighted peals echoing against the rough stucco walls; María regarded quietly, to no one but herself, that Noelle’s laugh was as beautiful as the rest of