Just when she thought she was getting used to the place, her eyes would taste a color that was too hard to swallow. At the fruit seller’s stand (mangos, tangerines, and bananas, brighter than any she’d seen in her life), or the flash of gilded magenta on a saari. She found herself staring at women often, the splendor of coffee-milk skin against fabric that glowed—the women here were more fascinating than the men.
The colors hurt sometimes. Garbage melting into the pavement, and she would freeze, drinking the color until it was gone. She wished she could look away.