She takes a single sip of lemonade. A tart taste of neon stings the back of her throat, making her face scrunch up. Contracting taste buds push her tongue to the roof of her mouth, releasing more flavor. A tang of sweetness suddenly rushes into the mix, coating the ringing taste buds. Closed eyes flicker and the edges of her mouth pull upward, tentatively.

Her grip tightens on the plastic cup. Its smooth surface clings to her hand - dainty, delicate, and dented. Tickling her fingertips, the plastic bends beneath her grip. It has barely moved, just inches from her scrunched-up face. Even still, the ridges on the plastic are obvious, outlining the sloshing lemonade, directing the movement of her fingers which trace one bump after the other.

In front of her, a table is set up. It is spread over with a thinning pink tablecloth, ruffled by the breeze. A lemonade pitcher is presented on the table, star of the show. The sun, piercing the crystal pitcher, brightens the lemonade but blinds the girl in front of it. Yet she still notices the slight dents in the plastic table, evident through the thinning pink. The table is scattered with loose, itchy sugar, lemon juice dripping off the plastic, burning the grass beneath. A tart odor captures her breath, fuming from the table, there from the mistakes of the crystallized pitcher. Taped to the table is a paper sign. Glaring and graffitied with sloppy red marker spelling “Free Lemonade.”

Two girls stand behind the table. One tall, one short. Both are ignorant competitors of the girl with the plastic cup standing in front of them. The tall one must be no older than nine - no older than the girl in front of them. She stands with her shoulders back, ponytail swinging, fingers wrapped around the handle of the pitcher, ready to pour. Smirking, her eyes dart to and from the tip jar set up on the table - filling fast. The eyes of the short girl are scattered around the scene, unable to rest.

Around the corner is another pitcher. Belonging to the scrunched-face girl with the plastic cup, it is half-empty and warming from the piercing sun. Tart becomes bitter, causing future taste buds to wither and die, unimpressed. What had once been crystal blocks of ice, floating atop the lemonade, have faded, watering away the flavor of soured sweet. No fingers grasp the pitcher’s handle. No one takes a single sip of its contents.

Back around the corner, eyes of two faces are locked together. Face still scrunched up with flavor, the girl’s gaze is unblinking, eyes never to be closed again. A gentle breeze tears at her eyelashes, pushing her to break the glare. She resists. The tall girl behind the table meets her gaze. Jack-O-Lantern smiles match, creating wrinkles on wrinkle-less faces.

There is a lot the tall girl behind the table can’t see. That beyond her bitter counterpart’s gaze there is a pitcher. A pitcher belonging to this girl with a scrunched face, gripping a plastic cup. A pitcher lonely and forgotten by thirsty pedestrians who only see the crystal in front of them, filled to the brim with the tart taste of neon.