Ginny and Laurel are juicing lime
s: Ginny's had a bad day, what with waking more than she slept, and dream
s about being a perpetual waitress
for the rest of her life. The day was not good for her.
Laurel cuts the limes one at a time and Ginny squeezes one half at a time, while Laurel squeezes the other half. Ginny's dream from her afternoon nap insinuates that if she moves to boston to pursue her legal career, her house may not have the "bubbly" attitude that it now has, and her life will be eternally unfulfilled. Laurel continues to cut limes, with a blunt serrated knife, toward her palm.
You know, she says, our company has bought the lot next to our building.
So far, they haven't done anything but push the topsoil up into piles: but the piles are almost as tall as our 2-story office. Today I got a ride in to work with Ed and we were talking about digging a hole in the pile, and putting massive amounts of baking powder in it, then running a hose in with vinegar, so there would be a volcano. This vision of explosion in the quiet partially-industrial world of Enfield is funny - we all laugh for several minutes.
That's what happens, Laurel says, when you have a boring life: you make dirt into a story.
This is what we made:
Juice of 8 or 10 limes
1 mango, peeled and sliced
several ice cubes
sugar, to taste,
all inna blender.
We make Ginny happy with the limeade
and a walk downtown, dribbling a basketball
on the sidewalk
all the way. We talk about bicycles and dogs. A little boy riding on his mother's shoulders watches us in fascination as the ball bounces. Something about the action of bouncing
or optimism, depending on one's personal leanings. Sometimes you forget stuff like that.
Ginny lost the flavor of her unhappy day.