i r i d e s c e n t

v. tangerine

a smaller citrus than the more well-known orange, yet just as unique

LUNA

Sleep had slipped over me, a gossamer second skin, but a series of low tremors shook me back to the land of the living. Or, at least, the land of the existing. Stretching, I futilely tried to pacify tingling limbs and shake off any of the lingering dream tendrils that hung a cobwebbed film over my thoughts.

"We're landing."

I turned my head to see vibrant brown eyes and a brilliant, infectious smile. He was awake. "Welcome to California."

"Thank you." Shyness painted roses across my cheeks, and I looked down at my book. It was almost funny how I rendered humans to gods who stole my words and breath. I never understood my social behaviors, or lack thereof, around strangers. They must have been too bright to look at directly for too long. Yes, that must have been the reason why my eyes quickly danced across his features before fluttering back to the ground.

But when I glanced in the mirror I couldn't even see myself.

Words, right. "Have you been here before?" I asked.

His smile grew brighter, if that were possible. "Many times. Look." He gestured towards the window, and I quickly turned to see where a graceful finger pointed, relieved.

The landscape was striking, beautiful in that way that is completely alien from anything you've ever witnessed before. The brown and orange earth of the desert was a stark contrast from the verdant southeast of my home, but it looked like art. And sparkling in the west in sapphire brilliance was the soft blue skin of the sea, stretching to kiss the coastline in gently lapping waves. My breath caught in my throat.

"She's what always keeps me coming back." His voice was low, reverent.

"Hmm?"

"My lady Pacific." He replied. I smiled, shifting to face him. Somehow the beauty made me feel braver.

"I'll let you in on a secret. Los Angeles is-" he leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially, "the greatest effing clusterfuck . Look down one street, the paps are trying their hardest to snap some plastic celebrity snorting coke off a Swarovski table. Down another, two kids just got shot in an alley over those same drugs, but no one knows and will probably never know their names, let alone their pain.

It's wild. The gangs and the hurt alongside the shopping districts and the people who are simultaneously trying to turn themselves orange and platinum. But when it gets to be too much, I go to her. And she reminds me of the good." He finished, brown eyes shining. His teeth looked even whiter in contrast to his dark complexion.

"She sounds kind."

"She's an angel." Amusement laced his words; I could tell he was pleased with his pun.

"Are there any other angels in the city?"

"They're everywhere."

"Thank you." I whispered again. It was probably an inappropriate response, but I was still reeling from his description.

"Sure thing, pumpkin. Enjoy your trip." He stood, and I suddenly realized we were on the ground. Climbing over the empty seat of a passenger who had rushed off only to get into the crawling line of sullen, tired exiting faces, the man reached into the overhead compartment to grab a briefcase. Running a hand through closely shorn black curls before straightening a tangerine tie (a funny burst of color against the rest of his professional attire), he flashed me a cheeky grin. And then he was gone like the rest.