Ah, the poor, sweet lemon. Set apart from the others, shunned. Only seen in small, small doses, envying the popularity and use of its kindred. Its smell, a sharp, pure scent, unique in its promise of sweetness. Its pure clean colour, like the new sun shining from a field of buttercups. One longs for it, water dripping from the tongue in delightful anticipation, the whole body screaming out to touch, feel, caress, savour.
But then the curse. Mouth and tongue reach longingly, closer and closer to its succulent meat. Lemon and tongue touch, and a scream of unfairity escapes the hope-shattered lips. A stabbing taste of hurt and injustice, of broken dreams and sundered love flies through the body, and every nerve shrieks in outrage.
And the lemon is put away, never to be tasted again.