Punished

Sitting at the platinum counter, peeling dimpled rinds off clementines pulled from the wire basket, his fingers are sticky and orange, and he wipes them boorishly on himself; first, palms down, along his sides, the backs across his thighs. He sweeps his hand across his forehead and pushes back his white, downy crop of hair, leaving it orange.

And, it sticks. Yes, it sticks!! His hand, sticky and orange, covered in soft and pearly pulp, pastes itself to his aged tuft. He entices his hand from his hair with a tug and, gleaning some fibers from the thatch, his hand is released. He looks and sees, amongst the fibers on on his fingers, orange marks�"�"stainable and, apparently, uncleanable.

He tries everything to get off the stain and the stick: soap and water, bleach, steel wool, a cucumber slicer. He moves from the chair in the kitchen and goes to the sink, the laundry room, the garage, leaving fingerprints on the doorjams and the walls as he flits from room to room.