Lemonade

"We're going to be late for writing class!" Ron exclaimed. 

 

"No, we won't," Barb replied, kissing him on the cheek before letting him go. She held open the large, mahogany doors for him and said her goodbyes. Behind Ron, the 12-foot doors creaked shut as he scanned the room briefly. All he saw was a sea of writers seated on brightly colored yoga mats. Weird posters on the wall featured shadowed figures: some smiling and others faced away from the blinding light of the sun through the patio door. 

 

Ron sat down on a yellow yoga mat, around 20 feet from the instructor. A glass of lemonade was placed next to every mat which he enjoyed wholeheartedly. Beside Ron, a blonde lady with an angry look on her face kept glancing at him. He almost felt tempted to say something, but rather bit his tongue instead. "Welcome to my class," Laura, the instructor, greeted the group of 21 writers. "I'll teach all of you how to write something that's not a steaming pile of crap..."

 

The instructor droned on and on about books and metaphors. The others nodded in agreement whenever she said something. But Ron didn't. In fact, he wasn't even listening. The instructor's voice only acted as background chatter to him. "I'm going to kill you," the blonde lady leaned over and muttered. Ron looked at her, but the blonde lady was faced forward. He swore he heard her say something.  

 

 Laura asked the group, "Can everyone move a little closer?" 

 

The yoga mat wouldn't budge. 

 

The instructor locked her eyes on Ron. "Could you come closer, please?" 

 

The yoga mat continued to be uncooperative. "It's stuck," Ron mumbled under his breath.

 

"Can you move the mat toward me?" 

 

He snapped. "It won't fucking budge no matter how many times you ask me." 

 

The other folks in the group gasped. A forbidden language had been unlocked. The blonde lady turned to face him. A discordant tune buzzed from the patio. "I'm gonna fucking kill you now," the lady snarled, teeth bared along with an angry expression plastered on her face. She lunged at Ron, putting him into a front choke hold with both of her hands. 

 

Both of them crashed to the floor, their fall only slightly broken by the yellow yoga mat. In the process, the lemonade glass was knocked over and the liquid started to spill into the wood floor's tiny crevices. "God dang it!" Yelled the janitor, Mike, from the far side of the room. From the brawl, the glass rolled about an inch out of Ron's reach. 

 

"Kick the damn glass to me," he beckoned to the brunette woman next to him, his voice strained from the choke hold. "Kick the fucking glass." The brunette lady gasped and backed away. 

 

"Why's there orange juice on my floor?" Mike asked, clearly discontent. 

 

"It's lemonade," Ron struggled to get the words out. 

 

"What?" 

 

"Sweep the glass over to me," Ron tried to yell, but his voice was still stifled. The blonde lady's grasp tightened even more. Mike swept the glass over to him, back through the puddle of lemonade, splashing it around even more. "Shit," Mike muttered. 

 

Ron grabbed the glass, to which some of the lemonade dripped into his mouth, before violently smashing it on the blonde lady's head. The attack appeared to do nothing other than make the woman seem dazed for a few seconds. With the remaining glass in his hand, he stabbed the blonde lady in the thigh. 

 

The blonde lady growled, backing away from him. "Oh, I can just run!" Ron thought out loud, running towards the stone patio, dodging the yoga mats and lemonade glasses. He ran straight towards the glass windows, shoving Laura aside on his way. The glass instantly gave way and shattered, sending him flying head first off the patio and onto the sandy beach.

 

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Written by Jerry Zervas on 12/5/25. DO NOT USE UNLESS GIVEN PERMISSION BY ME (i.e. email me)