Orange. I'd gotten used to it, living in an orange house, even though I hate the color orange. And this house was not a muted, tasteful orange. It was a neon orange, a Flyers orange, if you will. It was a conversation topic.
Whenever new people came over, they'd mention it, but I usually mentioned it first because it was really easy to tell people "the bright orange house" instead of the house number. But after living there for a while, I developed a sort of familiarity with it—kind of a misplaced pride: I own this place and it is orange. I own an orange house.
Now my house is no longer orange. I finally had it painted. And, honestly, it looks like an entirely new building. I know that paint can really change things (I've seen that when painting the rooms inside) but now it actually looks like a real house. An inhabited house. My house! —Sarah DeGiorgis