The Lemon

I cut open a lemon.

I wanted -- no, needed -- a drink. The day had been a sprint through gelatin, and my leg began to cramp. I craved a hug and a kiss from her. My girl, who was at that moment, 2175 miles away from me. So I figured the vodka would be warm enough to settle for, maybe.

I cut open a lemon.

It was already sitting out from the previous night. I could see the empty glass in the living room still -- With 3 lemon peels dry, where I had left it as I ran up some stairs to take some photos for my girl, who was 2180 miles away from me at that moment. So I had to cut off the edges that hid the fresh inside.

I cut open a lemon.

Before I could get the knife through, it stopped halfway at my finger -- that must’ve been as soft as the lemon skin -- because it almost went on, not minding any blood or pain. I stared at my finger and wondered if this had ever happened to my girl? Probably not, she’s the cook, the master, the example.

I cut open a lemon.

It flattened , and spread wide , and I swear I saw her clit inside. My face flushed and I gaped at this vibrant pulpy juicy sour fruit that I held in my bloody finger. The only other perfectly created thing I could compare the symmetrical creases to was my girl. I watched it a while longer, tempted to shove my tongue -- or graze it -- along the tear, hoping I could feel closer to her, who was still 2175 miles and perhaps 4 beers away.

I cut open a lemon.

I sliced it in half to more usable parts for my drink, and a small squirt of juice decided to venture towards me. It flew up and into my eye, just the corner, and just the smallest bit, but I suppose: if I wasn’t going to have her, she was going to have me. A sight for sore eyes, a riot, a full body experience is my girl.

I cut open a lemon.

All in all, it demanded to be felt. She demanded to be felt, known, to have my full attention. A usual 10 second routine turned into a 300 second trip around all that is my girl. Who is 2175 miles, a homophobic grandmother, a racist cousin, a fetishizing cousin, a drunk uncle, a removed aunt, a reliant sister, a relentless best friend, an over-bearing mother, a forgetful father, a taunting brother, an insecure bride, a southern humid air, and a cynical defensive territorial worried naked cyber girlfriend away from me.

I felt the sour of it all. The anger at my girl being sometimes not near me, not in my hand. The fucking frustration and jaw clenching hate at those who ever make her feel less than. The pain at not being able to protect what you love. Shot into my eye. And I squinted. And blinked. And nodded.

Worth it. Worth it, without hesitation or strain. Ready to take another pinch. If but to release something from her tensed muscles. If to let her sigh out the day. I’d unleash the whole lemon into my blood.

I cut open a lemon.

And for a moment she was right there, in my soft and small hands. I think: She is this lemon. Giving and giving and giving, no matter how long she was left on the cutting board, no matter who holds the knife, no matter what drink she’s going in, no matter when or why or how --

She gives.

She gives a shot to your eye, she gives a pause, where you both sit, being used by the knife, she gives a blessing, an addition to your taste. Would you even drink the drink at all if you couldn’t have some lemon in it?

Would I even know love at all if I never had Noelle?

I cut open a lemon.

And I am overwhelmed with clarity. 2175 miles or one foot or cheek to cheek, I will love her where she is. For what she is. For why she is. For how she is. For who she is.