Lemonade

• Annabelle Saunders, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2013

“I would like a glass of the universe, please.”

I look at you in shock. Here in this little café in New York, your question is the last thing I expected to hear.

“I’m sorry?”

“A glass,” you insist innocently. “Of the universe.”

My tray clatters to the table as I sit down opposite you. Your question makes me angry, though I do not know why. “How,” I ask in a low, tentative voice. “Can you have a glass of the universe?”

“It’s simple,” you reply in an airy, whimsical voice, your light summer dress swirling like the remnants of the spring that has just ended. “A tall glass full of darkness. It can be blue, if you like, or that strange impenetrable blackness that seems to go on forever. Make sure there are stars in it, too – though not to many. I’m on a diet. If I could also have a galaxy or two I would be much obliged – they always add such sweetness to the otherwise sour, bitter taste of my infinitesimally small existence.” You shrug and smile. It’s a lovely smile; it sets off your eyes like fireworks. All the childishness vanishes from your face and you lean forward with the breadth of an adult wise past her years. “Let me tell you this: to say that we know anything more about that thing there -,” you fling out your arm, pointing to an empty lemonade glass sitting on the next table, “than the universe is false. We have developed concepts about things we pretend to understand. Can you really understand something you’ve given a name to? The universe is called ‘the universe’ because humanity has given it that name. Lemonade might not really be called lemonade, and it may not be ‘cold,’ whether it chills us or not. I know what you’re thinking – how can everything that exists fit into a glass? Let me ask you this: how do we know that everything that exists isn’t already in a glass of lemonade? A whole galaxy could be contained inside that glass. People always think I’m mad when I ask for a glass of the universe,” you laugh sunnily. “But I don’t think you believe I’m mad.”

I stand up again, my tray scraping along the table as I pick it up. I whip out my notebook and uncap my pen. “So,” I say genially. “A glass of lemonade, then?”

You smile. “Cold, please.”