(KM: Chapter 1)WHAT’S YOUR FAVORITE FRUIT

(KM: Chapter 1)WHAT’S YOUR FAVORITE FRUIT

Around five o’clock, Jorja had been waiting for thirty minutes, scrolling on her phone, when a bad feeling clenched her stomach. It took one restricted call and one internet search for her to realize she had been stood up. Jorja wasn’t sad, surprising no one, she has been known for not being emotionally intelligent. Instead she blasted the music in her car and went to the nearest store and bought herself a bag of mangos.

The end.

Not.

Jorja wished that’s how her day went. She wished she had walked up the four flights of stairs to her loft, turned on the TV and sat on the couch until her kettle screamed at her.

Now that she thinks of it, some tea and a slice of cake sounds great right now.

But she didn’t get to make it to the front door of her building because as soon as she turned the corner, a black van swerved onto the sidewalk. The side door slides open, and walking nightmares grab her. They weren’t real nightmares, of course, just men. But let her set the tape back, and let her reader analyze the hours before her unfortunate entanglement.

— -

Jorja isn’t from England (where she is staying), in fact, she’s from a small town in Texas. It suffocated her so much, as soon as she graduated high school she found whatever way to leave. Her leaving was like tearing at a cardboard box (she always felt). Her parents didn’t mind Jorja’s need for distance; they always encouraged her. Thus, she moved to England in an impulsive and drunken mood, by the time she really sobered up, her boxes were already packed, and she was sitting in economy next to the bathroom.

However, once she bustled into her tiny loft, something lifted from her shoulder. Stress? Pressure? Relief? She’s still trying to figure out what it was. For now, she would find her conclusion six inches under (soil of course). Each meticulous dig was becoming a nuance, at this point she’d rather let the blue tulips cripple and frown down on itself- but what kind of wonderful person would she be if she killed her cousin’s product.

Babes Plant Nursery, has a nice ring to it. Though most days (with no coffee in her hand) she loathed seeing the sign grow as she walked closer to the nursery. Jorja had left to become a barrier-no- the keeper and protector of plants.

“Sweets, dig any further you’ll hit the root!” Babes hollered from across the greenhouse. Jorja felt a tiny crutch. Too late. Stepping away from her masterpiece, she had been taken out of her reverie and able to see her lack of a masterpiece. The bouquet of tulips had fallen flat, rubbed in dirt, like it was trying to escape the miniature pit Jorja had dug.

“Jo, what were you thinking? a client is coming to pick five of the blue tulips today,” her dirt-gloved finger points to the ground. “those included.” Babes sighed, “What will I tell them now?”

“Five is an odd number, so they could just take four bouquets,” Jorja added.

Babes hands on her hip, and Jorja felt she was getting a scolding from her parents. “Here,” Babes took the miniature shovel from Jorjas hand, nudging her away from the tulips, “You go inside the store and find something in there.”

She groaned, Jorja would rather not patter to customers about this plant and that. She rather not tell the mindless, newly landscaper or gardener what fertilizer to use and not, which one will stink the most and which one won’t.

She walked inside. The door bells rang in unison, from the front and the back. “Excuse me,” an old cigarette voice sounded. Jorja followed the voice, finding a middle age man, who’s whole personality looks as if its based off his intimidating golden chain around his neck and the chest hairs underneath. “Yes, how can I help you sir?” From the back of her throat, she found her pleasing- high pitched- customer service voice.

“Yes, I would like to pick up the five bouquets of blue tulips that I ordered,” Jorja demeanor cracked, “Oh, and could add in mistletoe and Hyacinth seeds, as well, for me.” Of Course she would, she’d let him have a batch of seeds for free. The man watched as she punched in the order on screen, “I’m sorry sir, but about your Tulips-

Babes kicked down the back door, dulling down the sound of the door bell. But it wasn’t her presence that made Jorja freeze, nor the red cart of five blue tulips she dragged within it. Though tucked in his pressed trousers, it was the flash of a gun handle the man’s hand gripped.

Listen, she’s not naive okay; Jorja knows everyone at some point will own a weapon or make one of their own, but this is London, and illegal weapons mean this middle-aged man, with about two gold teeth, has a perilous status.

“Here you are Mr. Lio, five Tulips,” Babes drops the cart handle in his free hand, “And,” she peaks at the register counter, “everything else you ordered.” She’s quick to bad his seeds and thrust them to her customer with a smile. Like a curious child, Jorja must’ve stared at Mr. Lio and he must’ve seen the fear edging her eyes, like her black eyeliner. He smiled a tight lipped smile, “Why thank you Babes,” he said sweetly, resting his hand from his alarm stance as he flipped his shirt over his weapon, “I’m sorry, who are you.” Mr. Lio’s thin smile contrasted his cold fix on Jorja. “That’s my cousin J,” Babes intersected while Jorja tried to force a smile.

“Ah, well have a wondrous day Babes!” he said, rolling the cart out of the nursery.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Babes sighed, “but don’t worry he’ll return the cart.”

— —

There really is no point in pratting on the details hours before Jorja got stood up by a guy she talked to everyday for a month. It wasn’t like she barred any limerence for him, she barely knew him and didn’t believe a word that slid out of his pretty mouth. But the events after she finally left as she waited for thirty minutes for the kissable liar, then is when her minutes and seconds became significant.

Firstly, Jorja parked her car in a grocery store parking lot and left no time to herself to fully comprehend what had happened to her though she had plenty of time pondering over that fact thirty minutes ago while her lip gloss began to lose its first shimmer.

Secondly, she perused around the fruit section, eyes skimming the rather vibrant fruits, landing on the reason why she drove all the way out here. Grabbing the mango that topped the mango pyramid, Jorja bit into it. Okay, she’s not a hooligan; she cuts open her mangoes and slices them into squares but today she rather embraces the pointed and judgmental stares. At least some people will give her the attention she was supposed to get an hour ago. Her teeth clamped on the fruit, mango juice oozing into her mouth, slowly beginning to spill out the corner of her mouth. By the time the mango juice reached the edge of her chin, Jorja filled her grocery bag with her fruit. When she left the fruit section, one could see the grand dent she left in the mango pyramid. Perhaps she should go to East London: the mango hub in Britain or better yet Guimaires and have her little huraa. Whether it was her fruit-sticky face or the amount of singular item in her bag, the short and stubby employee, along with the other outlookers, watched telepathically, telling her ‘You better pay for that’. And she did. Just not the two she ate before she got in line.

Thirdly, when Jorja had found parking for her car, only a two-block walk to her flat, she contemplated calling Baileigh, Babes, or even her Mom. But what would she say, she knew what they would say: are you okay, Oh My Gosh that dick, He wasn’t for you babe. She was okay; that was the complex part about this. She knew he wasn’t for her. Jorja didn’t feel any sadness nor any resentment towards him. How could you expect truth from someone when you know they spew lies and halves. Yes, that was the dilemma wasn’t it. The only thing he barely chipped was her pride. Karma? Maybe. So, she decided against it and stepped out of her car. Jorja had thought she was cowardly disregarded today, but what she would not find out until later is the three watching her this very second. Because she was the character of the day

— -

The bag of mangoes had slipped out her hand, as she sat on the rough bottom of the van, swaying from side to side due to the countless potholes. They didn’t have a bag on her head, or something over her eyes, because there was nothing to assess, nothing to look at. Her hands were tied behind her back however. There were the only jet black walls of the van and the men in front of Jorja, watching her as she watched them. The one in the middle rubs his jaw, sneering at Jorja, while she grinned back at him.

The question that forms in her head, and most likely in the three men in front of her: why wasn’t she crying, wailing, begging LET ME GO PLEASE, PLEASE!

Jorja didn’t know either. Maybe it’s because part of her mind was stuck on how she won’t get to dice the mangoes up, and eat them in one sitting.

“Where are you taking me?”

“That’s none of your concern. We take you wherever the boss wants you.” The broad man on the right says to her.

The van hurls to a stop, sending Jorja roughly to her side. “We’re here!” A woman’s voice- coming from the driver’s seat. Then something terrible happened. Jorja’s chest began to move up and down updown updownudoen. An invisible hand choked her, it squeezed her chest.

The side door slid open, revealing an alleyway. A dark cloth was thrown on top of her head before she was yanked out of the van.

Outside the cloth: There were three men carrying their boss’s package, while the two ladies stayed behind, guarding the van.

Inside the cloth: Jorja was confined with herself, forced into the intimacy of her own company. She inhaled and exhaled her own quickened breaths. She dreaded what the cloth concealed and the seconds she would continue behind it. Therefore, Jorja’s exterior began to shatter with every passing second.

Then, she started to beg.