Sultry evenings with the scent of the fish melted into the air were almost constant days. At least for me who lived off the orange trees I grew in my yard. The stench of fish was inferior to that of the raw oranges. I made enough to live the days. A lot would be greedy so I wouldn’t complain. John, on 64 Street, had an apple yard. The scent of apples peaked among the aristocrats. I couldn’t care. I lived happily with my small round-metals. He used to wear leather coats and bushy black boots during winter. It seemed as if it felt nice as the man would dare to walk through the fresh snow that had just dawned upon the land. I would watch in awe but I didn’t care, couldn’t. I was happy and well, except for a few shivers in my hair.
A dozen evenings passed. I developed a habit of sitting in my yard, staring at the oranges, morphing them into apples I hoped they were. I wish I had apples instead of these orange buds. The color didn’t even seem to be fancied by the most. An apple yard would have made my life a whole lot sweeter than the mostly sour oranges did.
I couldn’t stand the thoughts. I left the house. I wandered through the streets and yards. Yards filled with rosemary’s and thymes, bogon villas and pines.
I seemed to miss my yard. I seemed to miss my sadness. I seemed to miss my oranges. I ran back. Fast and deprived. I see people surrounding my yard, devouring oranges like a mad bird apocalypse. The oranges were not orange anymore, but rather a mere shade of dark red with beige lines contouring its ends. “Apples!” the people said.