Clementine season. I spend hours peeling not only the chilled outer scale, but also the zest, the strings, the inner membrane until all there is left is sacs of juice. I have eaten half a crate in three days. My nails are constantly yellow with pith. By Christmas even the idea of citrus will turn my stomach, just in time to return to California. Now, though, I scrabble off the layers, abandoning housecleaning and reading and hours that could be spent with other people just to put that floral memory of oranges on my tongue.
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