Citrus

The grapefruit was not as great a fruit as she’d expected, when mixed with the cold bitter of martini and vodka. Maybe it was because she sat alone, so there was no one else there to take the sting off things. Looking back on it, she was probably compensating for the fact that she’d given the lemon meringue pie to that homeless man. That’s why she’d sought out the lost tang of a grapefruit martini – rather, perhaps, than the cut of a green tea. Would she regret it in the morning? Possibly. She was torn, recently, between a desire to love herself and indulge in times, and a deeply ingrained wish to be as close as desirably possible to what she was not. Her friends were late, she imagined. The text came through that she’d been expecting. She’d buy their tickets for them. It’s hardly believable, is it, that he would actually want a lemon meringue pie. But he had. He had seemed very genuine. Almost sheepish, as though embarrassed at skipping his mains and going straight to pudding. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a lemon meringue pie – LMP. It floated out of a deep rut in her memory – a school friend with whom she’d buy and eat a whole pie on a morning when they felt particularly sorry for themselves.

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