Lemonade

I saw you out in the courtyard during the short time period of the day when it gets flooded with sunlight; you were intently staring at the sky, squinting, the expression on your face indecipherable. Your glass of lemonade was resting on the side of the flower bed, getting warm and losing its fizz. I wanted to go and put it in the fridge for you; I wanted tell you that it's bad to look straight at the sun, but I thought I would sound too much like my mother and, besides, you wouldn't hear me through the pane of glass that stood between us.

I wanted to tell you so much more, but I hadn't got the nerve.

I watched you for a few more moments, until you eventually turned your gaze downward, picked up your glass and finished your drink in one go. Your watch glittered in the light. I saw you turn in my direction and I quickly looked the other way. When you came back inside I stared at my book as though I'd been reading it the whole time.