LEMONADE

He’s sitting on the manor front lawn, grass sprinkler damp beneath his fingers and a sunburn staining the pale skin of his nose.

Summer is just ripening into cicada symphonies and sticky breezes, pitchers of lemonade sweating on back porches and record players scratching in sunlit sitting rooms. Something idyllic and something melancholy and nothing at all like the truth; fear lodged in the back of his throat as he barricades his door at night; learns how to prevaricate, to hide, to lie.