Sweet Salty Lemonade


Carla brooded, bent over the table. Her chin lied gently on her pale forearm, while the gale raged outside, on the deck.

“Batten down the hatches!”, she heard from above. A sound of drumming steps kept playing like a wet drunken polka. She was thinking of Vienna, of the chandeliers shimmering around her at the ballet. Her pearly leotard still cherished her skin through the vivid memory of Schubert’s Trout. Like a trout, now captured, she was jumping and writhing in a barrell. She reached for the whisky jar in the cupboard above her with a slow, feline movement; suddenly Mike came down cheering her as if he was her owner and she was his wistful kitty lioness in the cage.

“We’re almost there dear!”, he trumpeted.

“I wish I wanted some lemonade. But I think scotch fits me more these days.”

“Whisky is amazing, Carla… if you just didn’t run to it every time you think of the past, of the gala, of champagne and stuff.”


“Jack and Sara are now able to manage the whole thing by themselves up there. It’s fabulous, isn’t it?”

“Fa-bu-lous.” she spelled it out taking square photographs with her fingers.

“I love you Carla, but you shouldn’t ruin your trip like that.”

“In fact I’m trying to ruin yours my love.”, she blinked and sent a kiss through the damp ether of the hull.

He looked pretty disappointed by her childish drama. Nevertheless he took a long sip of lemonade enjoying every centilitre of it, then breathed out satisfied. She was not entirely an idiot, so she couldn’t help but suffer when she disappointed his more than sensible feedback. Carla knew she was being selfish, but her ego, like an experienced dictator who’s made so many successful golpes, controlled her body and mind – let alone her soul. At least she was aware of it, that’s a good start, Mike said to her once.


“I wanna dance.”, she said firmly. Mike stopped his present activity – cutting loads of lemons – and turned. Finally the special stimulus came. Finally she managed to receive it, in order to avoid to screw up the whole trip. Mike was staring at her while she produced her walkman and plugged in the aux cable slithering from the sound system.

“Fuck the ballet! I’m tired of regretting…”, she pressed play and the sharp rattling sound of cymbals faded in. Then a roaring bass solo entered the scene to introduce the kinkiest reggae tune ever. Her oak-brown eyes  dragged him into her pristine rastafari spell.

She was swaying and breathing deeply, rubbing her body against his. Nobody knew Mike was a dancer: as his ice coating melted, his legs were bouncing up and down to the rhythm, to their rhythm. Lemonade, damn cold lemonade, flooded their feet. It was spilling all over the place, but they couldn’t stop; the energy was so strong, the connection so deep. The shamanic ritual went further, they were swimming in a pool of multicoloured lights. The lemonade elixir slowly reached their hips and holy smokes diffused. The music in their heads wouldn’t stop. They were making love as never before, drinking and drinking. Until they reached the mountain top and the sailboat touched the ocean floor in the absolute silence.

Written by Herons

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