Sandpaper

I had a friend long ago, all limbs and heartache. All length, caramel shroud; slippery: silk off the bone. He smiled lopsided like the world was upside down. All he ate was lemon and lime, chewing the rind till a yellow sun formed around his teeth framed the mouth, dripping color on the tile countertops. He squeezed them into a 4-litre winebox, crammed it so the little plastic tap broke and the cardboard fell apart. He said he always drank water, I knew him five years and never saw a drop. Just the lemon, just the lime, just the gargle and spit of wine sloshing against paperwalls.