Short Story – Lemon Sorbet
I’ve just taken part in Writer’s HQ at home Writing Retreat. I didn’t start with goals, but after the first zoom call I had 3 goals. 1. Write a poem 2. Write a flash up to 1,000 words 3. Write a 250 word story. I thought I’d share the one I enjoyed writing most and also the one I feel is the strongest. This is a true memory I have as a child, with a few bits tweaked for the story for more effect. I’m not sure on the final line, whether I need it, what do you think?! Anyway, I hope you like it.
Content warning: graphic imagery.
Lemon Sorbet
On Saturday my mother takes me to the market. We travel down the escalators into the depths of the traders. It’s bustling with people and I hold my nose as we pass by the fish stall. I glance at them, their eyes bulging, their spirits long gone. In the distance I can hear the kittens mewing from their cages, and I hope one day I will have my own kitten to love.
We come every week, weaving through the masses, marveling at the exotic fruits on display, brightly patterned clothes we cannot afford and the flowing rainbow reams of ribbon at the haberdashery.
I feel a rush when I see the ice cream stall at the back of the building. I drag my mother along, desperate for my weekly dose. We stand and wait in line. In front of us is an old lady with a squeaky trolley filled to the brim with vegetables and bread. I sniff the air and my stomach rumbles.
At the front of the queue is as on old man. He points to the lemon sorbet and I think in another life we could have been friends.
We step closer, not long to go now. The bubble of excitement grows as I place one small foot in front of the other. The old lady orders Rum ‘n’ Rasin and I pull a face as the tall man behind the counter scoops the ice cream into a a fancy waffle cone. My mother nudges me and I try to smile as she passes us by with the worst flavour ice cream in the whole world.
‘One scoop of lemon sorbet on a plain cone please.’ My mother searches her purse, gathering coppers and counting them as fast as she can. Her brow furrows and I think it’s because she hates maths.
The man behind the counter smiles at me. He has a wisp of dark hair covering most of his head, and a gold necklace tucked into his red and white shirt. He scoops the biggest scoop I’ve ever seen into a plain (not waffle) cone and hands it to me with a serviette. I take it, staring at the white peaks in awe. I wait patiently as my mother pays the man.
‘Thank you,’ I whisper.
We walk steadily back towards the escalators, past the floral displays, freshly baked pastries and brick-a-brac. My mother shields me from the bumps and bashes of other people and I hold on firm to the cone.
We reach the base of the escalators and I pause. The lemon sorbet drips onto my fingertips and I realise it’s now or never. I’m about to lick the dripping mess when I notice the old man from earlier standing at the top of the escalators on the other side.
He is dressed in a long tweed coat and matching hat. He has furry caterpillars for eyebrows and his skin is wrinkled with decades of laughter. He wipes his mouth with his serviette and smiles. He must have finished his lemon sorbet, the remnants of the cone dropping from his mouth into the crevices of his clothes. He looks happy.
I look at my sorbet, still dripping down my hand. I know in a few moments I will be as happy as the old man is right now. I glance back up at him as he pockets his serviette and steps onto the escalators.
Before I have chance to return to my cone he catches my eye. He nods at my ice cream and smiles in agreement. I smile back, we’re kindred spirits after all. But then everything changes.
I watch him lose his footing. He slips on the cold metal step and I gasp. I watch his eyes widen, his hands reach out to the sides as he tries to grip onto something, anything. His hands fail him and his other leg follows the rest of his limbs. As he hits the second step with his knee, I can’t help but close my fist around the cone. The crunch of his bones matching the crunch between my fingers.
He continues to tumble down as the market stops in its tracks. He cracks his arm on the side of the protective glass as his body curls over itself. He bounces a little, but not enough. He makes a soul churning groan as his body is thrown from step to step. He reaches the bottom, a few feet from us, and I watch his head smash into the ground. It spills open like a ripe fruit and I drop my lemon sorbet to the floor.
Suddenly the market is alive again. People rush in, gather around him, try to hold his head together with their hands. He reminds me of the fish, his eyes bulging but no life left to see. All I can smell is coins.
My mother pulls me to her and I glance at the ground. The sorbet a messy pile seeping through the gaps in the tiles, an image of the old man in ice cream form.
I start to cry, but I’m not sure what I’m crying for.
My mother guides me closer to the escalators, pushing through the people as they merge into a mass around the old man.
‘Let’s go.’
I put one wobbly leg in front of the other and step onto the bottom step. She steps behind me and we’re carried up and away. I look back but all I can see is the crowd and a pool of red.
The following Saturday we go back to the market. It’s the same as before, but we are not. We take the escalators down but my mother goes ahead and doesn’t let go of my hand. When we reach the bottom we both step around his imaginary body.
We stand in line again at the ice cream stall and she orders my favourite. I take it and eat it immediately, scared of what I lost the week before.
The cold soars through me and I feel the tingly sourness on my tongue. My mother asks if it’s nice and I lie, nodding as I try my best to force it down. But it doesn’t taste the same anymore, it tastes bitter.
I feel scared it will always be this way. I finish it and wipe my mouth with the serviette. We leave the way we came, but as we approach the escalators I can’t help but think of the old man. I think of his face, smiling at me, knowing what I know, loving what I loved.
And then the truth hits me. Lemon sorbet will never taste the same again.
But I wonder, if in another life, I might meet him again. And, if I do, will it taste better when we’re both friends?
