Disappointment clogs her throat like a bowl of hardened limes. She can’t breathe past their pebbled, waxy skin. The shiny limes are wrapped in leathery peels. They are tight fists knotted in her throat. Their green coats are not cheerful. They are garish and they mock her. Limes look like they’ve shown up for a party with a bunch of bee bopping balloons to celebrate. They have not. Those balloons will punch the shit out of the air for a minute or two before they start popping, cracking the air and dropping ribbons to the floor. The doors of her lungs blow shut and her heart blinks. The broken balloons are dusty slips of rubber piled on the floor.