I have an orange. It is cold, compact, firm to the touch. Its skin curls around the fruit so tightly that it is difficult to peel away. A keen scent leaks from the pores, staining the air wild and sharp and citrus-sweet. It is a mammoth of its breed: if I stare just long enough, it looks like a tiny sumo wrestler who has neither hands nor legs nor appendages of any kind, only a tiny flame-tufted head perched on his titanic body. But I digress. I only meant to say that I have an orange, and I am content.