Parched

This is the fictional story of Margo, who was inspired by an unnamed CraigsList poster.

The ice clinked against the glass as the bartender brought Margo’s water over. She swiped a napkin from the short pile near the register and slid it under the glass before it hit the bartop. The bartender made her way back down the bar to continue her conversation with the regulars, leaving Margo alone once more.

Juice from the lemon slice cut a minute stream through the condensation. Margo followed it with her eyes, the trail zigging and zagging its way, taking its time. It stopped just short of the napkin and pooled drops of water together.

Margo squeezed as much juice as possible from the lemon sliver into her glass and then popped the rest into her mouth. She sucked the fruit from the rind, thinking how at a younger age she would never have been able to do so without her face puckering up like a cat's… well, it wasn’t pretty. Before her taste buds could regain their footing, she bit into the rind. It was sweet compared to its citrusy counterpart and left her mouth feeling clean, stripped of the contemptible taste of her day. She relished in the feeling.

She hadn't felt that clean in ages.

*

Margo sat in her favorite worn chair, carefully poking the needle down through one side of the fabric and up again through the other. Cracked white letters spelling out ‘oys’ were visible on a green backdrop directly adjacent to a heather gray square. The B from the first half of the word was on the other end of her massive undertaking. No one who didn’t see her shred it into pieces would ever suspect that it was a vintage Beastie Boys t-shirt. Claude’s vintage Beastie Boys t-shirt. Claude’s favorite vintage Beastie Boys t-shirt. Margo smirked to herself, debating whether she would tell him about her little project or not. The needle pricked her finger and she hissed through her teeth.

“Damnit, Claude,” she said. She stuck her fingertip into her mouth to suck the little bit of blood away. “No matter, you’ll get yours.”

Yusuf, her twenty pound cat, slunk his way through the door and curled up on the floor next to her empty slippers. It was a ritual they had. She’d come home from work every afternoon and plop into her chair, legs sliding up under her. While she continued to work on whatever project she’d started or the book she had dog-eared Yusuf would lounge on her five-dollar slippers so they’d be warm when she rose to cook dinner.



Margo had spent the better part of a week in the pub below her apartment battling the urge to give in to a drink. She’d been sober for seven years and she’d be damned if she’d let Claude’s blunder ruin her victory.

She fought it by eating lemons and making lists of all the drinks she could possibly think of. If she couldn’t think of any drinks she alphabetized the list, always thinking of a few more drink to add. Her AA group thought it was an odd way of curbing the temptation, but figured it worked for her.

When she made the lists she didn’t think about how Claude had been the one to introduce the incredibly delicate taste of lemons and avoided remembering the way they’d lounge around on Sundays eating one after the other. He would cut the fruit in half then slice away one sliver at a time, each fragile circle falling effortlessly onto the plate.
She liked to nibble away the rind first, finding it the easiest passage into the tart flesh. Just when she would start to think she couldn’t handle the sour she’d pop the rind in and calm her teeth, squeaking with clean.

She loved kissing him afterwards, loved exploring the cooled tingle of his mouth. The texture of their tongues came alive with the friction.



On the fifth day the bartender tired of serving Margo hours and hours worth the free waters and began charging her for the lemon slices. Margo had been leaving a generous tip after each glass and was appalled that the woman thought it necessary to insult her patronage. She ordered a bowl of lemon wedges for herself and a round of waters for the house, sans lemon. The bartender kept a composed face and sauntered off to serve the other customers.

“May I purchase you a real beverage?” The voice came from a man three seats down. He was handsome but had good fifteen years on her. The words sounded rehearsed, as though he were trying to sound educated.

“No thank you, I’m not drinking.”

“I’ve noticed. You haven’t been drinking all week.”

Margo didn’t know what to make of this. She hadn’t remembered any faces from her daily visits, though she had to admit her mind was elsewhere. Her silence echoed the wary look on her face.

“Don’t worry, I haven’t been following you or nothing. I own the place. Seen you through the kitchen window. You been spending a good amount of time here, haven’t you?”

He seemed to have given up on his grammar. Didn’t take long, Margo thought to herself.

“I suppose I have. I’m sorry if I’m hurting your business,” she offered up insincerely.

“Nah. Ain’t doing nobody harm. Just strange, is all.”
*

“I was thinking tacos for dinner, what do you say?”

Yusuf turned his head and gazed up at her expectantly. Margo usually kept quiet while in her chair. He half expected her to rise early and started to get up, but she’d already turned her attention back to her sewing.

She took her time and kept a steady hand. Each little stitch was the same length, a habit she’d long since adopted. Sewing kept her grounded, kept her thoughts in order. Unlike her lists, it didn’t distract her from her problems. Instead she used it to make sense of them, to work out what exactly went wrong, where the problem had stemmed and whether she could have done anything to change it had she seen it coming at the time. Sewing required little thought and as she weaved the needle in and out of the fabric she ran through her relationship with Claude. It hurt to think about him so she avoided the happier memories.

The rug was coming along nicely. It was surprising in its enormity. She had finished stitching the pieces together and was now going through and adding a parallel stitch for durability. She had no idea what she would do with it when she finished, but she knew this had to be done, she had to go through with this and be thorough.



“I walked in on him.”

She’d finally told him after three weeks of their chats. Yusuf had been sitting in the dining room when she returned home from her meeting that day. It was unlike him not to be curled up on the sofa, especially since she knew Claude was home. Yusuf didn’t take well to strangers and she assumed there was someone else in the house.

Claude and a red-haired woman who couldn’t have been more than nineteen were sitting under a wrinkled blanket on the couch. They hadn’t said anything but it wasn’t out of guilt. The just looked at Margo as she stood there taking in the scene.

There were various articles of clothing strewn about on the floor, the bookcases, the table. Half of a lemon sat on a plate. It looked like the juice had been sucked out, the fruit was so withered. It must have been there for hours. Dried little bits of rind were scattered around, much like the clothes. Margo knew they weren’t Claude’s.

Margo said nothing. She walked into the room, looked directly at Claude. She kept her eyes locked with his while she picked up the lemon half and squeezed the juice out onto the plate. She didn’t know how to explain the reasoning for reacting this way when she told the man who owned the bar, but he seemed to understand.

“After that I left. I guess he knew not to come back because when I went home to make sure Yusuf was fed Claude’s things were gone. It’s like he’d been prepared for this.”



Margo cleaned Yusuf’s litter box placed the rug under beneath it. He sniffed at it and trotted off. She remained where she was a moment longer, studying the way the colors clashed against the wood flooring and plastic maroon box. She knew it would nag at her and she’d have to get rid of it eventually. It occurred to her now that it wasn’t very fair to Yusuf to have to live with Claude’s scent when they both knew he wouldn’t be coming back.

Just in case he wanted it, she left it there a bit longer. It wasn’t long before his meows turned into yowls and she found him sitting next to his cat box waiting for her to remove it.

She shoved it into the back of the coat closet and shut the door, thought about it, and instead stashed it in her purse.



“When Claude and I first adopted Yusuf his name had been Tony Montana. He had spent years with his previous owners, but had to be given up when they couldn’t decide who would get him in the divorce. The cat didn’t seem like a Tony Montana type so we scoured a book of baby names, calling out the ones we liked until he responded to one. Yusuf was only jokingly brought up, but it was the one that stuck.”

Margo was in the pub again, visiting with the owner. They still hadn’t exchanged names, but it was beginning to seem less and less important that they do so.

“Yusuf loved Claude. He would meow at his feet whenever Claude came home and wait for him to take his boots off. He knew he would be picked up and held like a little baby. Claude would massage Yusuf’s stomach for a few moments before putting him down and changing into his sweats.

“After a few months of this Claude started to get distracted. Yusuf suffered the most, and he stopped running to the door when he heard Claude on the porch. Yusuf and I got closer though, so I guess I ignored the signs. Or maybe I was just too naïve.”

The bar owner held his gaze after Margo stopped talking. He said nothing. This often happened. The silences weren’t awkward; they were companionable.


*
The rug had been in Margo’s purse for nearly a week. She’d hadn’t forgotten about it; it was weighing down on her shoulder enough to bruise. She just wasn’t ready to let go yet.

The bar was fairly packed but she didn’t see the owner anywhere in sight. She’d been wary of his company at first but began to find him charming. Lately she’d done all of the talking, but he seemed satisfied just to have someone around who wasn’t determined to plaster themselves with alcohol.

The bartender brought a plate of lemon wedges to her table and a pitcher of water. She set down two glasses.

When the owner sat down she launched directly into the conversation she’d planned out.

“I need you to hold onto something for me.”

She’d told him about the rug and had assumed this was coming. He was honored but also saddened. He knew this was the end of them for at least the time being.

“I also need you to promise me you’ll destroy it. I put a lot of work into this thing and it probably seems like a strange request. Do with it what you will, but I do hope you treat it unkindly. I doubt I’ll come back for it but who knows? I’m nearly free of it all now and one never knows the mindset they’ll be in under such freedom.”

She laid the rug on the table. It was perfectly folded and sewn in long strips of odd colors. It was ugly and beautiful all the same. The bar owner had never met Claude but he assumed the ugly part of the rug, the clashing colors, were all his doing. There was too much care and effort put into the construction to mistake where the beauty came from.

Margo gave the bar owner one last imploring look and stood to leave. She hesitated a moment before picking up a lemon wedged and popping it into her mouth. She was gone before he could see her lips pucker from the sour.



The bar owner took the rug and hung it up behind the bar. He used it to mop the floor behind the bar every night and it reeked of alcohol after only a few weeks. He wasn’t sure he’d ever see Yusuf’s owner again. Their friendship had been played out. She’d gotten everything out that she’d needed to and he was happy to be of help to her. If she ever did come in for a drink, though he was prepared. He’d proudly bring out the rug and offer it as a gift, hoping it would end the torment for good.

Author's Note

Tell me what need's fixin'.

I contemplated entering this as nonfiction, but because I do not state within the story where I found Margo's inspiration or that my girlfriend Lauren was actually responsibly for the knowledge of lemons, I figured fiction was its real home.

Reviews

[Angel's Lady]

- The just looked at Margo as she stood there taking in the scene. -
You asked what needed fixing...the first word should be They, shouldn't it? That's all I could find wrong.

You have written a very delightful and entertaining story...poignant, yes...touching, yes...does it give the reader pause to think? Yes. Did I, at any point, want to stop reading it? No. You held my interest and, therefore, my thoughts captive. Great piece of writing! I wouldn't change a thing. Good job!