Precise Discards

Dust motes danced in the afternoon light illuminating the vendor’s dwindling stock; oranges with bruised skin formed small, separate heaps beside a few perfect specimens. He handled each piece with deliberate care, discarding fruit that seemed viable to any other eye. This wasn't simply sorting for ripeness but an insistent separation—defining worth by subtle deviations from an unseen standard. The scent of sweet citrus hung heavy as the piles grew, a quiet testament to what was deemed *not enough*, hinting at a larger pattern where wholeness is measured against distant ideals.