Paul sat with his brother, John, on the bench at a bus stop. Paul was, as much as his flat temperament would allow him, in a good mood; a whiff of rain was in the air and the sun was shining over the mountains, giving a kind of ethereal beauty to the whole scene, even the coffee shop where a small group of intellectuals perpetually sat discussing irrelevant things making no sense to anyone but themselves, which had never quite lost its novelty to him. He loved what a beautiful kind of emotion it gave him. Emotion in itself, he thought, was beautiful. It's what separates humans from animals.

John, on the other hand, found no such solace in the rising sun. The priest who took care of him had packed him an orange for his snack in school and had told him to eat it with his lunch. However, this instruction was superfluous; in any matter in which oranges were involved, instruction was far too feeble and blunt to be heeded. It wasn’t until a few minutes after the damage had been done and pieces of orange peel had gotten stuck to his shirt that he remembered his instruction and felt horrible guilt cloud his thoughts. He began to whimper and make pre-sob noises, totally convinced that he had committed some sort of violent felony for which even God may not forgive him.

Paul could feel John’s confession for eating the orange trembling on his lips, but remained unfazed by his brother. The same thing had happened many times before, and John would undoubtedly go back to his happy, carefree self by the time the bus arrived.