Abstract
[Extract] Frida is lying in the bath thinking about drinking limoncello in the summertime. About the cold glass in her hand and the tart liquid pooling on her tongue before she swallows it. The memory – which isn’t a single memory, but a composite of sensations and scenes – makes her ache. She knows that this summer there will be no limoncello or long nights or loud music. There will be no lovers, no lie ins, no late morning pancakes crisp round the edges. No late morning cups of tea swallowed while a tongue goes deliciously to work between her legs. No gentle weight of her body floating in the ocean until freckles bloom wildly on her limbs and her face, and she rolls in with the tide to her towel and her novel and her bottle of limoncello to lie beneath the banana palms, strands of seaweed trailing behind her. Because this summer Frida is going to have a baby. And babies do not have time for liqueur, or oral sex, or novels, or the sea.
Journal
Superlative
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3
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5
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Superlative Literary Journal
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