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She struggles and hands it to him.


He doesn’t even glance over, instead choosing to stare at the screen, fingers flying across his keyboard like dancers in a show. A show that repeats daily, without a break in routine.


He doesn’t even notice the scent.


Years have passed and his senses have dulled.


He no longer cares for the sweetness.


With a sigh, she takes it back and continues to struggle on her own.


When she finally succeeds, she breaks it into two halves and passes one part to her husband.


Every day has been the same.


The colors in their life have faded, from a once picture-perfect vibrancy with the saturation turned up to the dulled down sepia, bordering on black and white.


As the brightness dims, the distance grows.


She leaves the room.


It’s sweet with a hint of tanginess, its colors intense and pure.


She eats her half of the orange alone, in silence.


It’s chromatic.


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