The orange blossoms smell like a walk three years ago, eight years ago, to a class where a boy will tell me he's going to Korea. I don't really know him. I should be attracted to him, but I'm not. I leave orange blossoms in another boy's dorm room. Their little white petals drop on my head as I shake the branches in my grandpa's small yard, hoping for a fruit to fall. The perfume he buys me, a slender, golden tube...it smells like every spring time of my childhood all at once.
The Not-Really Book Club meets each month in Sacramento