I bring the polka-dotted Dixie cup close to my mouth, getting a ponderous gust of the tangy zest from the lemon juice. I pull away viscously second guessing myself. I look into the innocent, cloudy cup of yellow. The appearance calmed me reminding me of a summer day in the back yard gazing into my mother flower patch full of daffodils. Reassured I perch my kisser on the edge of the cup. Slowly I tilt the insubstantial, papery cupful to my distressed lips. The cutting extract infiltrates my mouth. My face becomes heavily folded with wrinkles, my eyes squint tightly as my eyelashes tickle just below my eyebrow. I'm paralyzed from the vicious smack of tang. I'm impaired from nothing other than a little lemon juice. It settles to the bottom of my mouth, finding the courage I squint my eyes tight again, clench my fist and commit to engulf the acidic lemony potion. As it left my mouth and funneled through my esophagus into my stomach it gives me a kick as though I am six months pregnant. I wait anxiously with the pungent after taste of lemon. I slouch back in my chair and take a sigh of relief. My nervous system can stand down. The battle is over.
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