Umbrellas and Oranges

I've just began to read a book that is little known outside of the Spanish-speaking world called Mist by Miguel Unamuno. I'm about 30 pages in and already I'm scratching my head, but in a good way.

Unamuno's main character is standing outside of his door, holding out his hand looking for rain. He remarks that an umbrella inside of its cover is elegant, that an unopened umbrella is as beautiful as an opened umbrella is ugly.

It inspired me to write...

An orange before dinner sits on the table. It is of firm flesh hinting of the juicy delights to be tasted so sweetly hidden under its orange robes. You sample the starter, perhaps it's something as lovely and decadent as seared foie gras with carmelized onions. Still, your tongue tingles involuntarily. It can already taste the acidic sugary eruption as your teeth causes the tender segment to rupture. You move to the main course. Perhaps it's something hearty that sticks to your ribs and expands in your belly like a balloon inflated with a comforting and warm breath. You cut and chew and your tastebuds go off like fireworks, but you remain as disappointed as a child who thought the bottle rocket was going to climb higher and brighter than their favorite star in the nightime sky.

Your fingers cannot wait. The plate bearing the saucy carnage of your boeuf bourguignon is still infront of you. You strip the orange like an impatient lover. You experience frustration because your nails are too short to tear away the tangerine colored skirt and matching top. You dig in too hard and bruise the flesh. When at last it is exposed to you, you give your juice stained hands little rest as you tear your conquest segment by segment. You devour it.

It is no longer elegant. It is no longer a perfect round temptress. You ate the orange to satisfy your gourmet lust.

But you hold your hand out before you go out your front door. You feel the light pitter patter of rain dance like Gene Kelly across your palm. You, like me, have a well-practiced dance with your umbrella not unlike Mr. Kelly or Mr. Astaire, though assuredly a little less dramatic. You step and simultaneously open your umbrella. You keep your blow out bone dry.

It's only later when all you can see, later, when the umbrella is wet and cannot be folded back up into its convenient little cover or the orange cannot be reassembled again that we begin to see the mundane aspects of objects (and in worse case scenarios, people). But when it served our purposes and well, we thought little of it. When it was perfect, untouched and unspoiled, we spoke of it like a dream...

The main character goes on to say basically, about this umbrella that an umbrella is like God - you only take it out when you need it. He then chases a woman down the street.

So yes, read this book and don't forget your umbrella.