“I have a confession to make,” I said. “I bought some orange juice at the grocery Friday.” I don’t normally buy orange juice, for those of you who are unaware of my ‘weird’ living habits.
“Ha. Poser,” he replied.
“No. Not a poser,” I said with gravity. “Curious person trying to contact her inner child.”
“You should try diluting it like I do. Half juice, half water.”
“Also without pulp which might help.”
“I think the pulp is good for you,” he protested, forever siding with the sticky, sweet stuff.
“I’d rather have an orange if I’m going to do that,” I said, with a shrug. “Here’s the thing about me and juices. Orange juice isn’t good for the enamel on your teeth, apple juice makes me sick, cranberry juice is for vodka and grape juice makes me think of communion.”
“Ok first of all,” he declared, straightening up in his chair, “there are like a billion other juices out there.”
“A billion?” I asked, with a laugh.
“Also I’m surprised you are so concerned about the health of your teeth relative to your concern about the health benefits of orange juice, only red grape juice should remind you of communion (white is better anyway), plus what’s wrong with communion?”
“I do worry about my teeth,” I admitted, “but you can get similar benefits by eating an actual orange which, for some silly reason, seems less bad for my teeth even though it probably isn’t. Besides, oranges have added bonuses of awesome that orange juice just can’t provide.”
“Whatever ‘awesome’ oranges have is totally offset by the inconvenience of peeling and eating an orange vs pouring a glass of juice.” He settled back in his seat as though this were the end of the conversation.
“I like peeling oranges,” I said. I also explained my nifty orange peeling apparatus. “Not to mention you can squirt your lunch partner with orange oil if you feel really feisty which you can’t do with a glass of juice.”
“If you’re going to be downright mean like that, then you could just pour juice on me,” he said, with a smirk. “Orange juice wins, give it up.”
“Is orange oil a mean thing?” I asked. “It’s not like I’m smashing orange slices in your shoes or anything.”
“You’re talking about squirting me with orange oil! How is that not mean!?”
“Orange oil, for one, is the worst projectile ever. It goes about quarter of an inch. The chances of my actually reaching you are slim. And for two, it’s not an overwhelming amount which one can squirt from an orange. It wouldn’t be like you were splashed by Shamu.”
“Fine, then you just refuted your own advantage for oranges,” he said, gesturing palms up. “Squirting lunch partner isn’t an advantage of oranges over juice if the chances of actually reaching me are slim.”
“Yes, but it’s the gesture,” I countered. “I can’t gesture throwing juice on you without it actually happening and I wouldn’t throw juice on you.”
“I’m not sure I believe that.”