We've known each other for years, Terry and me. He was best man at my wedding, and right afterwards my wife pointed out that he smells like rotten oranges. No way, I says, what do you mean rotten oranges? Swear to God, she says. Well. So after the honeymoon I see Terry at work and go up to him, you know, to catch up or whatever. And he gives me this big hug, right? And for the first time I smelled it. The top of his head smells like warm stones like since we were kids, but sure enough wafting up from his armpits there's this rotten orange smell. Not real strong or nothing but once you notice that a guy smells like rotten oranges you just kind of can't let loose of it, you know? And I don't know if this is like some Yoko Ono, ESP, woman influence thing. Because I can't figure how come I didn't notice it before. And now I find myself compulsively walking by his cubicle, especially on warm days, like how you can't stop smelling your hand sometimes after you've been chopping garlic or whatever.
And then recently the dreams start. There's a stone throne at the end of this long, low underground chamber, right? And Brenda, my wife, right? she's being forced forward, towards the throne, by this group of small but very strong and serious oranges. Or I think they're oranges, maybe they're like tangerines or something. It's dark. But they smell like oranges. Or like the armpits of oranges. I know this sounds crazy but just listen. And the oranges have this strange, serious, sort of angry, reverent look on their faces, and their eyes are glued on the throne. And Brenda is struggling and looking scared and disgusted but also kind of fascinated. Almost like she wants them to drag her over to the throne. And then I look and sitting on the throne is Terry. Friggin Terry that I've known since 6th grade, only now he's on this throne with these servants that are oranges. Or tangerines, maybe. And did I say they were in long robes?, the citrus I mean. What do you think it means, Doc? I'm not crazy or nothing, am I?
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