Tangerine Girl

There once was a little girl who loved the color orange. She loved the color, the scent, the taste, she loved that it was bright and lovely and reminded her of the sun; all it’s warmth and decadence cascading over her like a summer shower. The little girl loved orange so much that she persuaded her mother to buy her a whole bag of cutie clementines. She would peel off the rind section by section until it was one long line of orange. She would smell it and bite the edges, and rub it between her fingers so that the smell and stickiness lingered there. She would enjoy the sectioned morsels, each a piece of treasure to her.

She ate one each day, mother said no more, but she would make it last. After the first few days she started sneaking them at night. She would take one to her room in the folds of her dress. She would eat it under the blankets of her bed savoring each snippet, each fractal of brightness that the juice left simmering on her tongue, and she would be happy.

She would be unhappy too, because the craving was always there. The bag was soon gone. Her mother bought more. She started sneaking more of them at night, two, three, four, until her teeth were stained orange, her lips bright with decadence. Once, mother bought blood oranges instead, but she wouldn’t eat them. She peeled back the rind, said, mother why is it bleeding?

The days turned to months, years, and her immune system had never been better. Mother bought her as many oranges as she wanted and she ate them one at a time, but many. Some became known as the Tangerine Girl because she was never seen without one in hand. The sugar raced behind her eyes, the flavor skyrocketed from the back of her throat to her brain. There was no greater bliss.

She wore only orange by then. Orange leggings, orange dresses, orange shirts, orange socks, even orange underwear. When she aged it became orange underwear all hand-picked and lacy. It will be too bright, said the store clerk. Never, said the Tangerine Girl. She bought a house on a tangerine farm many years later, but she didn’t much like caring for them so she hired a farmer. He brought her all the tangerines from her fields which she stewed, made into marmalades, jellies, pies, tarts, juices, candies, breads, cakes. She coated the rinds over fish and chicken, baked them into cookies. Her life had become the color orange. She made the house orange too. Its walls were light orange, the counters neon, the cabinets a fine shade of jasper. She painted, and pulled up the carpet, waxed over the hardwood floors. She brought in new furnishings, new couches, an orange bedspread and throw pillows. She fashioned herself inside the orange, her chimney painted green, her rooms the different sections, tendrils running through, and herself the seed.

One day the farmer came in holding an apple. I thought you might like to try it, he said. She fired him. The next farmer that came was blue. His clothes were blue, his hair was blue, even his countenance was blue. The woman didn’t mind for he brought her her tangerines without comment. One day she was walking through the garden and spotted what was not a tangerine tree. She tasted a berry from the bush, sweet and plump and ripened. She liked it so much she thought she might turn blue herself.