TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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The window offers me a southward view of the car park, of orange bins for trash and recycling, ivy-covered walls, and perpetually damp brickwork. The car park light is on at 4:41 pm, dusk already, despite the passing of the winter solstice about a month ago. I am impatient for spring, I forget my coat at home, and I wear hybrid shoes that are inappropriate for the cold kiss of January: purple suede gladiator-ballerina flats, which zip up along the heel, slight golden braces on the dark journey from school.