By the first pour of the morning, the lemonade kiosk had a row of toothpick-sized lounge chairs along every glass. The slices arrived early, took the sunny rim, and would not think of diving until they had nodded to the straw.
We asked at the kiosk. “They sunbathe,” said the seller, wiping a counter that smelled of peel. “A minute on the edge, a polite nod, then in. If you stir too soon, they look disappointed, and the drink tastes hurried.” A boy with a coin waited while the yellowest slice finished its sit, then raised his straw as if to say after you.
The day after, a neighbor claimed the ice cubes had begun to wait as well, lining up behind the chairs like polite ushers. The seller says that is only a rumor, though a kind one. The garnish still goes in. It simply finishes its sit first.