"Do you know what this is?"

"An orange?"

"An orange?! Hurumph!! Hurumph!" The man cackles. "Does this look like an orange to you?"

"Yes."

"Why...why...why...this is no orange! This, little missy, is a tangerine!"

"So?"

"So?!?! So?!?! Don't you know what that means?!?"

"No."

"Why...why...it's who we are!"

"We're a bunch of tangerines?" The young girl inquires intimately.

"You know that's not what I meant!"

"Then what did you mean, father?"

"I meant...I meant...well I meant this." The father leans down to better tell his woeful tale, "This is a tangerine, right?"

"That's what you keep saying."

"And tangerines come from the ground, right?"

"I thought they came from trees."

"Right right right...but the trees come from the ground, don't they?"

"I thought they came from seeds."

"Goshdarn't Anastasia! You know what I mean!"

"So what?"

"So...when we die, we become the dirt, and the dirt becomes the soil, and the soil nourishes the seed, and the seed becomes the tree, and the tree gives us tangerines. Are you picking up what I'm putting down?"

"I didn't know you put anything down."

The man fumes with exasperation. The girl smiles politely.

"Honey, I love you, but sometimes you're just plain stupid."

"I am not!" The girl counters with seething contempt. "It's not my fault I come from a long line of Tangerine farmers!"

"You take that back!"

"Take what back?! The fact that you're just as stupid as your dad and his dad and grandpas dad too?! Mom was right! You're all just a bunch of dimwits!"

"Anastasia! That is no way to talk to your father!"

"Says who?!"

"I am your father and you will do as I say!"

"Why should I?"

"I will not tolerate this belligerent scrutiny! I am your father and you will give me the respect I deserve."

"I've given you more respect than you'll ever deserve." The girl spits defiantly upon impudent soil, emphasizing her meaning.

"If your going to be like that, I'll just send you back to your mother!"

"Fine!"

"Fine."

But the man didn't send the girl back to his mother, for, though he abhorred the very thought of anyone criticizing such a fine occupation as tangerine farming, he all the more loathed the very thought of extinguishing his last bond to reality, his final love in a world gone stale. Yes, the farmer certainly loved his work, and yes, the farmer adored the chores and duties and satisfaction that came with it, but it was nothing like the bond between two people. Mother and daughter, father and son, husband and wife, friend and neighbor. His daughter was his last of many bonds, and when he finally broke his only connection to the known world, he too would be lost.

The farmer recognized this, and felt great guilt in playing the young girl in the ways he did. He knew it wasn't moral nor right nor honest. He knew he should love her unconditionally simply for being his flesh and blood, but he couldn't much do that. No, the farmer held no capacity for love past the selfish tendency to preside in society. His wife was a thing of security and his neighbors a worthy investment, but all were lost for the fateful cause that is tangerine farming.

Yes, the man admits, most don't understand the great burden that is the farming of tangerines, and many more ignorantly pronounce tangerine farming a thing of the past. But, to the man, they are all wrong.

The farmer knows the true importance of his work, and will sacrifice anything and anyone for the betterment of his tangerines. If that means burning his neighbors crops and sleeping with his wife's best friend, then so be it. It's not like he ever really loved her anyways. It was simply a business transaction.

But now all he had was her, and if he lost her, he lost everything. This he accepted with the solemn grace of a man long found guilty. He knew he'd never have another child, and to his fathers discontent, he'd most certainly never have a boy. The young girl was his last hope to pass on the long farmer legacy. If she failed as a farmer, than so too did he. For a farmer's greatest duty is not that of planting the crops or showering their leaves, but educating the sons and daughters of tomorrow to do just that. For, without a legacy, a farm is just a piece of land, and anyone can get that.

The girl didn't understand this, and to the farmers great exasperation, wouldn't hear a bit of it. To the girl, all that mattered were the clothes she wore and the friends she made. Without the opinion of others, she had no thought entirely. A man's opinion was the cornerstone of her beliefs, and more importantly, the very reason she lived. She never wanted to be a farmer or an engineer or a doctor or anything else. All she wanted was money and stuff to buy. And, the girl solemnly realized, the only way to get that stuff without actually doing any actual work was to merry a nice rich boy who would never be so smart as to sign a prenup. Someone so stupid as to actually believe in the fallacy of love. That's what the girl wanted.

The farmer didn't understand this, and the more he encouraged her, the less she obliged. To the girl, the farmer was like any other boy: dull, stupid, and basically pointless. She didn't much care for boys, or girls, or anyone for that matter. But at least girls she could talk to. Boys were just so stupid. They'd do anything just to stare at your young, supple breasts. You want a new car, you got it. Need a new wardrobe, all yours. People are just so stupid.

Of course, the girl never told the farmer any of this, and the farmer never realized. All the better, in the girl's opinion. What he didn't know wouldn't hurt him, and it certainly did.

But this the farmer would never realize, for he would die long before the girl would get married or sell the farm or even participate in any farm activity whatsoever. This the farmer did not yet know, but would far too soon realize. For on this fateful day, the farmer dreamed his last sweet tangerine tune.

"Anastasia, please come help me!" The man pleads, "I need you honey! Please? How am I ever going to meet this years quota without you?"

The girl found no interest in the conversation, and rightfully informed him of such.

"Anastasia! Don't be like that!" The farmer was on his knees, dare I say on the verge of tears.

"Be like what? A girl? What else am I suppose to be, father?!" This last word she spit with writhing mockery.

"Anastasia! I love you. You're my only daughter. My only flesh and blood. You're all I've got left. Ever since your mother left...I....I...please Anastasia, I need you. Please don't do this to me."

The girl would have none of it, and so the farmer accepted his solemn exasperation, and left to do his daily dose, horrendously undermanned, terribly ill fit.

This, of course, would lead to the inevitable death of the farmer. And though the farmer was eerily aware of this ominous fruition, he did nothing to stop it. No, the farmer didn't even dare to warn the girl of the spasmodic catastrophe which was soon to take place. Only acceptance could be exonerated in such a situation, and so he did.

How the incident occurred and the events which followed are of no use to the spying public, and what happened to the farmer henceforth is of no use. The death was gruesome and the loss was minimal. That is all that may be said on the subject.

The town mocked weary woes and even the girl shed a tear, but little was ever thought of it again. Even the wife attended the funereal, though she dared not stare at those dead, haunting eyes. She knows what she did was wrong, and she knows what he did could've been forgiven. But she didn't. She couldn't. Not anymore. And this was the real guilt which swelled upon her aching bosom. Not that of loss or suffering, but what ifs. What if she had stayed with him? What if he hadn't cheated on her? What if she didn't send her daughter to live with him? What if she would've visited sooner?

There were so many what ifs, and yet so few answers. Of course, she confided these dilemmas with past family members and ruined relationships, but they did little but soothe her worrying tendencies. To the girl, this was all just a big hub bub over nothing. The girl didn't like the farmer, and neither did any of his family. In fact, the only person to ever truly enjoy his presence was his mother, and she died long before the funereal.

But the girl was lady enough not to say a word of this, at least, not at the funeral. Afterward, she would be scolded and punished and likely teased for her barren cold hearted ways and insufferable objectiveness. She would be tortured by the truth which no other would ever realize or accept or acknowledge: the farmer was a failure, and no death could martyr that.

When she told her husband of this incident, some ten years later, he bawled like a mother, weeping the death of a man never met. Why he did this the girl could never understand, nor did she wish to expound upon the indifferent incident. But that he cried was a point of fact, and not something to question or wonder over. People cry for all kinds of peculiar reasons, the girl thought. What he thinks is his to think, even if I don't think anyone should think such a thought. Who am I to think?

The husband insisted she visit the long sold farm, and after much whining and crying and begging, she gave in. No amount of lady charm would ever resist the resolute of a man driven by madness. That he was mad was no longer a question. The only question now was when his madness would finally consume omelet elm.

As they pulled up the long, narrow drive that was the farmers late home, a strange feeling grew in the girl's stomach. Not that of sadness or anger or any other emotion, but something else. Something she'd never quite felt before. A warm, queasy conundrum which she herself could not explain. Something, to the great exasperation of her husband, she'd never feel again.

The old man who had bought the farm, some three months after the death of the farmer, was a nice man, a "friend" of the farmer, and a generally good human being. One thing he was not, however, was a farmer, and that was clearly reciprocated by the dwindling fields and rotten tangerines.

"So, you've come to see your old man off, have ya?" The old man grumbles politely.

"You're not my old man, old man." The girl replies sourly.

"I never says you weres."

"Yes you did! You just..."

"Ana, it doesn't matter. You know what he meant." The husband soothes softly.

"So you wanna see him or not?"

"See who?" The girl snaps.

"Well, your daddy! That's who!"

The girl stares with scrupulous contempt.

"Ummm, sir, I don't think we quite understand what you mean." The husband offers after sometime."

"Well that's why you're here, aren't ya? To see your daddy?"

"My father is deceased." The girl replies coldly.

"Sure...sure...do you wanna see him or not?"

The girl isn't sure how to respond, and so simply nods, following the old man past the many acres of orchards to the edge of the farm, just near the small pond. The husband wishes to follow, but the old man ceases his movement, and whispers something the girl cannot hear. After that, he stays where he's put, no contempt, no whining, no nothing. Simply acceptance.

When the girl and the old man reach the pond, the old man pauses, if only for a moment. "What...what did you want?" The girl stutters with anguish.

"I don't want nothing."

"Then why did you..."

"You didn't let me finish. I don't want nothing, but I need something."

"What do you need?" The girl mumbles hesitantly.

"Before your daddy died, when me and him used to be neighbors, he made me promise something, right before you came out. I suppose he had some sort of feeling or something like that. About yours coming and all. But I spects he didn't much care about no feelings when it came to you. You were the only thing he ever loved, ya know."

"He didn't love me."

"No, I spose he never told you as much, but he did. Why else would he ask you to come out here, in the heat of the spring, the busiest time of the year? It sure as hell ain't cus he's gotta whole ton of free time."

The girl gives no answer.

"And why else would he ask you to help on a farm you sure as hell don't give a damn about."

No answer.

"And why, Miss Anastasia, would he go out and do a job he damn sure as hell know he can't do by himself, just when you so happen to be here?"

"I don't know." The girl fathoms, finally.

"Ya do know! And you know damn well! Your daddy loved you more than a fish love water! Your daddy loved you like a lizard love the sun and tangerines love the color orange! You knew he loved you and you sure as hell know it now!"

"What do you want from me?!"

"I already told ya. I don't want nothing. What I need for you is to pick up that thing over there?"

"The orange?"

"Does that look like an orange to you?"

The girl wouldn't admit that the object certainly did look like an orange to her.

"This here, missy," the old man begins, snatching the object out of her hand, "is a tangerine! Do you know what that is?"

"A fruit?"

"No! Not a fruit! It's your daddy!"

"I'm sorry?"

"You don't get a damn thing, do you?"

"Well if you would just explain..."

"If you don't get it now, you'll never get it."

"Well I can't get what..."

"Leave."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me! Leave! Get! Be gone!"

"But...why?"

"If you have to ask me a question like that, you'll never get much of anything, and that makes me sad, cus your dad was a fine, fine man."

"What does that have to do with me?"

The old man says no more, and walks back to the house, his house, her home. There was nothing left to be said.

The girl stood for some time, waiting, hoping, wishing. When this task proved futile, she sat by a solemn tree, leaned against its weary branches, and dreamed of tangerines.