The lemon exercise

Describe how the lemon before you looks, smells, tastes, without actually mentioning that it's a lemon.

A yellow eyeball lies on my palm, the iris blending into the background, only a suggestion of a pupil, a deadened stare. Pink scars mar the waxy surface, ridding with craters the size of pink pricks.

Yet it smells of her after a shower.

Riven into four, one wedge’s scent is that of a mojito done wrong, summer without the mint, rum or sugar, but relaxing nevertheless.

Plopped in my mouth and biting into the rind, a gush of sourness lit my mouth, lingering along the back of the upper palate. A few chews later, what remained were pits that traveled freely and a grip of rubber that collapsed under further pressure, releasing a a very different sensation of clean floors that trickled deep into throat.

I failed to explode with zest. Instead, my tongue smarted from five lashes.

(Words other students used: bitter, sour, scorn, puckers, stinging, startles, asmine, astringent, bites back.)