This margarita is too cold. Too cold for February. Too chill for my bare hands-

in this ceramic blue mug. And too much artificial flavoring.

Slicing the only lime I’ve got: it fills my tiny kitchen. And this smell? John immediately surrounds me. John Simon. Deep breath in, closing my eyes. I want to swim deeply into this smell.

If he were here now, what would he say? First, I imagine he would sit and take a moment with an easy smile, dressed in black like always. Next, he’d tell me I looked like shit and needed a shower. Then, we’d each drink two margaritas and talk about nothing. He always asked the bar for extra limes.

And we’d laugh together. Sometimes he’d rest his hand on mine- precious hours when the world outside ceased to exist.

Eventually, he’d stand to leave. Leaning over and, in his deep, warm voice, said something like, ‘You never do brush your hair, do you?’ And he would kiss me gently on the cheek, just at that spot beneath the eye.

The furnace flips on, and my drifting mind snaps back. Cold lime, small kitchen. Feeling like falling from a dream. I’m lost.

Dusk is arriving. The tiny mountains I call foothills are neon pink in the changing sun. Then, like a bruise, trees near the top quickly become a darker and darker plum color.

Darkness is erasing everything. Sometimes I wish it’d erase me. The moon has gone missing, and with it, my foothills.

My head is still stuck on limes. At first, John was the faculty, and I was the student. When he showed up, he disliked the work I’d done.

“This canvas was stretched incorrectly,” he said to my face.

Pompous son of a bitch, I thought, face blushing deeply.

Later we’d laugh at this. Rough edges eventually softened. Free from the university, John became my friend with cancer. And I was the young thing with depression, vanishing slowly before his eyes.

Now I’m alone in this faraway store. One kid is restocking lettuce. A young couple is arguing about root vegetables, but it’s hard to tell with their masks on. There is a steady, unrushed beep at the checkout. Squeezing the limes feels mildly criminal. Beep. Simple pleasures, right? Beep. These two fit inside my palm just so. Beep. The fruit’s skin has these miniature indentations-craters- like they’d been small moons plucked from the sky. Beep.

I hold one up to my nose, slip my mask down, closing my eyes. I can feel the sun on my pale face. How can something smell warm? This fruit is magic: a tiny globe of captured sunshine.

The limes are 39¢ each. Not the organic kind- organic produce is too pricey- maybe another day. I want the freshest one I can get, which is ridiculous. It’s February in Idaho. Limes don’t grow here.

It’s snowing softly as I leave the store. My two limes roll around inside a plastic bag inside a paper bag. More damage to the planet. Does this bother other people?

Tonight's dinner? Another pre-canned margarita. One slice of lime, and again, that smell. Zest covers my face and glasses, making me sneeze. The kitchen pops with memory. One big squeeze and it bleeds itself into my drink. This drink’s label is festive: as if it could conjure the magic of the conversations held long before. That’s a lot of heavy lifting for one can. It’s doomed to fail. I tuck the remaining lime away in the fridge.

I hate that I can’t remember what kind of cancer John had first- I’d never known him without it. Stomach, maybe at first, then into his bone marrow? His blood? He died on a Friday. There wasn’t a funeral.

When I got the email, I was alone in a garden in Idaho, 1,371 miles away. For a moment, I didn’t remember how to move. There wasn’t anyone to tell. I can’t remember what was growing.

After four days in my fridge, the leftover lime has changed profoundly. Devoid of all its magic, it’s the end of the road for this now brown fruit. So I open the trash- but I am trapped for a moment in my own hesitation. Just toss it into the bin?

Shit why don’t I compost?

Where will it go from here? Does anyone keep track of garbage? Would it be incinerated or buried in a landfill? Instead, a barge may float it to a faraway land.

Where is John now? No details. Why not? Suddenly, my face is covered in tears: the sneaky, quiet kind. This leftover lime- I’m squeezing it without realizing it. The juice is falling onto the floor. Maybe I’ll hold it forever.

And that second lime I bought? Untouched and forgotten. It got pushed into the back of the fridge. A great deal of effort would now be needed to retrieve it- stuck between huckleberry jam and a carton of eggs. So now it’s just lost. I’m still lost.

2023