A little background.
My new project is "The List", something which will probably be renamed. In short, it is simply one hundred prompts. Some of them will be connected to others, most of them will be stand-alone. In the end, none of them should need to be read in order.
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079. Illogical
Her hands smelled of clementines.
Of all the things he’s lost of her, this is the one that remains. That sharp, pungeunt odor that used to follow her around like an exotic perfume.
She would have lived on the things if she could have.
“Mark, would you like a clementine?”
The words still travel through his mind occasionally, and when they do he closes his eyes and remembers, remembers the scent of her hair, her skin, and then the scent of clementines.
Those damned clementines.
~
She lay in the hospital bed, her hair splayed across the white pilllow, the color stark in comparison. In her pale hands, as usual, she holds a clementine.
The nurses tell her that she shouldn’t eat so many of them, but she only smiles at them and offers them a piece of the fruit.
“Go on,” she says, her voice still carrying that teasing undertone. “They’re good for you.”
The perfume of the clementines are sweet, and Mark used to think that it would make her hands taste like candy. When he kisses them, to his disappointment, he finds that it only tastes bitter.
~
She died in her sleep, they told him. Calmly, peacefully. No, there was no pain, no suffering. She went gently.
In the days after her death, he would lean his head against the window and close his eyes. Sometimes he would stray into the area between sleep and awareness, and she would be there with him, her legs pulled up underneath her. She was always eating clementines.
Don’t you get sick of eating those things? He wanted to ask her. He never did. He didn’t want to offend her, or make her go away.
She very rarely said anything, only smiled and ate her fruit.
He once asked what Death was like to her, only because of the surrealist state he was in.
“Sweet and gentle,” she’d answered, her eyes shining. “He brings me Clementines.”
Death, the bringer of clementines.
~
The bowls in their apartment used to be filled to the brim with clementines. They sat empty now.
Sometimes, if he were in the store, he’d stop in the produce aisle and pick one up, weighing it in his hands. He’d bring it close to his face, and inhale deeply. He’d treasure the scent.
Then, slowly, he’d drop it back into the bin and walk away.
~
He got drunk one night, and she came to see him. He lay his head against the kitchen table and sobbed, cursing her and her death and those blasted clementines. Through bleary eyes he’d looked to up and see her standing there, smiling a sad smile. She came close to him, and placed her hand on the table.
When she took it away, he saw the small orange sitting on the table, shining brightly as though it were a jewel.
“Have a piece of fruit, Mark,” she said sadly, running her hands over his hair, his face, his neck. “It’ll make you feel better.”
He cried himself to sleep at the kitchen table, and when he woke up hours later, exhausted to the core, she was gone, and the scent of clementines lingered in the air.
He held the Clementine she’d brought him gently in his palms, rubbing the pad of his thumb over the textured skin. Then he crushed the fruit in his hands, and felt the scent of the juice overwhelm him.
She never came to see him again after that.
I love how you’ve approached this though! I like the progression, the hints and suggestions. The best I can do is suggest you lengthen it a little bit and see how you go from there. 
