Alfred Hitchcock lemon (whole)

At the Alfred Hitchcock pub, the lake through the window frosted with the moonlight. I clutch in my hand the clues of a treasure hunt never undertaken. Sitting opposite me is the girl. She doesn’t know what she’s about to become part of. But I’m not sorry.

She orders herself a drink, and while the staff away I lean over the bar to take a whole lemon from beside the serrated edge of the knife next to it.

“No! Someone will see!” She cries. “Stop! For the good of us all!”

But we both know I never will. I’m hungry still.

When she stands up a second time to order another drink, she rests her arm on the bar, leaning on it.

The staff turn around once more, and I roll the lemon slowly behind the cover of her arm. Placing the drinks in front of it to cover the view, we smile and pay. When the coast is clear, I quickly roll the lemon off the bar and catch it with my other hand.

One lemon (whole)

Then we must hit the leave, before our souls catch up with us. We’re different now. Our shoes are strung together from songs about roads and desert tongued clay.

We’ll be back for more. Maybe not from here. But we’ll be back for more.

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~ by Sandy Nicholson on October 7, 2012.

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