11.8b

I like the taste of citrus. Limes, especially, are very good because they taste so good and clean and exotic and new and fresh and not at all like what you'd expect from a pitted green football shape that grows on a tree. They're almost perfect. Lemons are good too, because you can turn them into all sorts of things. Lemonade and lemon meringue and zest and lemon wedges for contests to see who can strip the enamel from their teeth the fastest. And grapefruit (so excellent as breakfast food or basically anytime food) because there's so much citrus in a grapefruit I don't have to work so hard to eat it. And oranges make me happy (especially navels, I mean who can turn down a fruit with a belly button) because they're sweet and tangy all at once and oranges are just so excellent as juice. And the segments? Segmented fruit? Whoever invented that should be taken to a dream castle where their every wish comes true. It is the best idea ever in the whole world, and it is so perfect that I can always tell when I am exactly halfway done with a fruit. Apples can't do that. Yeah, that's right. I compared apples to oranges, and oranges won.



So I started buying sets of a dozen limes from the store. I put them in my pockets and ate them randomly when I'm sad (or happy bored optimistic embarrassed anything really). It's probably not good for my teeth, but it's excellent for my morale and I just brush a lot and use fluoride mouthwash. I tell myself that will do the trick. It probably won't.
Still, there's nothing like the fresh scent of atomized lime juice drifting through the air and up and onto my face and through my fingers new fresh clean virgin smells rolling in and throwing themselves into me. Limes are such perfect fruit.

So Ros threw me a birthday party, even though we had finals coming up, and we celebrated the fact that I was newly legal to be sexually active in Nebraska. Pretty much the lamest celebration ever, considering I was legal before that in . . . just about every state that matters. I have never lived, and never hope to live, in Nebraska. I don't suppose there are any limes there.
I got back to the room and Ros threw a pillowcase over my head and dragged me out to her car. I didn't scream much, I swear (though I probably screamed a bit right at first, and then more when we had to go down the stairs because the elevator is out). She drove me somewhere and then ripped the pillowcase off and yelled
"Happy birthday slash feliz cumplay anyos!"
I (bewildered) asked "What's with the murder of Spanish?"
Ros laughed. "I took you to a place that appreciates you. Let's go."
We went inside a restaurant with an exterior that looked ready to be shaven (the faux stucco looked like it had been applied with a squirt gun) and took a seat near a window. Ros told the waitress that I was a birthday girl and I deserved to be sung to. The poor girl went and got all of her coworkers and sang me into the chair. If a girl has ever melted more effectively than me, I want actual proof. I swear I was liquid. Then, they brought us our drinks.
Most restaurants use lemons.
This one used limes.
La Casa Grande, you are the best place in the world. I bet you don't even like Nebraska either.

"So, how's Enrique doing?"
"Mmm? Oh, I don't really know. Good, I guess."
"Are you guys planning anything this weekend? Anything fun? Movies? Game night? Bowling?"
"He's pretty busy, especially with finals coming up. I'm pretty busy, too."
"So, just no plans? I guess that's a good thing. You two are super duper responsible."
"Yeah."
"This lime is amazing."
"I said you'd like it."
"Did you find out what that Paper was about?"
"Oh, the one for history?"
"Did you not hear the capitalization? Can there be any other Paper?" And so on. It was good, nay--excellent--to finally catch up with Ros. Enrique didn't help. College didn't help. Being nineteen didn't help. I didn't help.
So Rosalyn and I and limes. It was a perfect day.