Mr. Lime sang, jovially: "How much you identify with a tangerine is a matter of taste. Tangerines, squeezed for juice and color. The tangy tangerines, which may be less ubiquitous than oranges, but for that reason, more precious and personable - la la! My computer's name is 'Dancing Tangerine.'"
The orchestra broke into a lilting, almost inaudible waltz.
Mrs. Orange interrupted the waltz with her deep, androgynous voice: "Oh Lemon, thou art great. You bless us with your scent, most of all."
A tumbling of drums.
Right away, Ms. Lemon, in a distant soprano voice, responded via Twitter: "Dear Orange, you are the king and queen of fruits. We submit to thee."
The orchestra rushed to a climax and suddenly fell completely silent, except for a lingering oboe.
When Tangerines A and B began a quiet and sinuous duet without words, the rest of the wind players joined in, mumbling together like doves from my childhood, your childhood.
Soon enough, a tangerine-like sun rose to shine on the city of oranges. It was early morning and most of the city was still asleep. Meanwhile, a glass of lime juice materialized in the nearby mountains and was quickly gulped down by an old lemon.
