“in all the operations of art and nature, nothing is created; an equal quantity of matter exists both before and after…” ~ Traité Élémentaire de Chimie, Antoine Lavoisier, 1789
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There was this boy with a face coarse as the shoreline. Taught me that you need four peaches, one cup of sugar and your Momma’s tea leaves for the best iced tea in town. It’s funny, really, to see him sitting on an upsidedown wine crate, so worn you’d think it’d collapse right under him. He tells me how down the street he buys the peaches from his Pop.
Who’d buy iced tea here? The windows along the building wall are grated, when half the wall is missing anyways. And the sidewalk feels blazed under my feet. It’s mighty pretty to be honest, the way the ivy clings to the metal fences and how the paint gave up a long time ago and cracked and relaxed for once.
“It’s the best spot, I promise.”
His teeth gleam a little when he speaks.
“I’m going to sell it until it’s all gone, like I do every day.”
I wonder what he gets from selling iced tea, day in and out, for three cents a sip. I told him he’d be better off in the square, the one with crooked yellow tiles crawled with cats without collars. Or to work in his Pop’s store selling peaches rather then buying them again.
“My Pop grows fruits on these crooked tree branches. And he watches them everyday until they’re ready to sell.”
I can see the fan turning, turning, turning inside, buzzed on the thought that soon aromas will curl around their blades. And they wait with the white chairs that curl in when you sit down, skin pinched to keep you awake even when the peaches are as dormant as ever. It’s far too warm today.
“It honestly tastes the best that way.”
I think this boy, who looks like his face eroded away, is irritating. There’s nothing good about sitting with fruit pits between your teeth waiting for some sole passerby to crave some damn peach iced tea.
“You know, it’s hot out here. You should sit down.”
I don’t want to sit on some crate that’s supposed to epitomize viticulture these days. It’s cracked in three places.
“I planted that tree, you know. It doesn’t look like much, nothing at all really. But someday I won’t have to pay for my peaches.”
It looks about ready to crack too, like the cups on the table, the pitcher, this wine crate I’m sitting on.
“My momma said, whatever I’ll put in, I’ll get out so I water it everyday. And I’ll find a way to grow mountain tea some other day. And then some day my Pop’ll sell my peach tea.”
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I think about that boy some days, when it’s far too hot to do anything but sit outside and wish it was a wine crate and wish I’d go back and find him watching his peach tree. It’d be spider armed by now, with a fan lapping overhead like the sun against the window grates.
Then again, the building’s probably gone by now, crumbled like the shoreline. Maybe, he’d have a shop where that building was, with white walls and a sliding door, only for peaches and tea leaves. Or he’s a business man.
Nevertheless, his face would stay somewhat the same I think, eroded at the cheeks, selling peach tea cartons with a picture of his tree insisting the best goes in. I’m sure he’d smirk if he saw me now and tell me quite simply
“It’s simple logic really, with four peaches, one cup of sugar, and Momma’s best tea leaves it’ll always be the best.”
Overall
) But it isn't a conversation, and it isn't an exchange of feelings or metaphors or experiences, because the two characters are on opposite sides of a glass wall. They're having two different conversations, each with themselves rather than the other.