In the beginning, there was you, saying: ‘Should we make some lemon water for when they come?’, and there was me, cutting wedges from the fruit, squeezing one into the glass water-filled bottle, where it sank to the bottom, and it seemed content there.

We consumed the water over told-before stories, and when they left, I put the bottle into the kitchen sink. This seemed to be a good place for it. You poured some hot water into it, to soak, presumable, although it would’ve been better to remove the lemon first and I think you knew that.

The next morning, I poured the water out of the bottle again, gave it a good shake, but the lemon wedge wouldn’t get out. It had slowly expanded overnight, as if it had stretched itself after a good night’s rest and was ready for whatever there was to come.

I was in a hurry, so I put the bottle into the sink again with just a layer of water, as not to make your soaking efforts undone. I went on a trip south that night, and it was surprisingly nice to forget about it all.

When I got back, the lemon was still there, now in an advanced state of decomposition and imprisoned in its glass enclave.

I noticed you had removed my water, though.

There were also a spoon and a satay stick next to the bottle, which I’m sure were carefully placed there by you. Yes, you’d tried, I guess – but so had I, and now this object was placed so very in my field of sight. I had never seen a bottle act so aggressively.

We had waited too long, still, would it be too soon to throw it out altogether?

I didn’t want to drink from a bottle that had once held something so moldy, so dead. I went to the glass container and was surprised by the clarity of the shattering.