Wrenching open the ancient refrigerator,
I reach into the cool interior,
and graze my fingertips against the shelves,
sticky with watermelon guts and soy sauce,
on my way to the half-filled pitcher.
I grab the handle and hold on tight.
With as much strength as I might use
to cling to the leg of one of my children,
if they were hanging from the rung of a ladder,
suspended over the edge of a 500 foot tall mountain.
I tip the vessel over, and the liquid sloshes into the waiting glass,
a mini waterfall of sorts, tumbling into the bottom.
My mouth salivates, imagining the tart crispness,
the bitterness of the alcohol-soaked fruit against my tongue
as I wash away the trials of the day.
And then, disappointment.
I'm on full duty tonight as Tim has baseball.
This isn't the drink I need, only cool ice water.
I drink it like it's my last one on earth.