I slice a lemon in half, open it up, and scrape out pulp with my fingernail.
It takes a long time to finish a lemon this way. Takes a lot of patience to do it.
Every few tries, the pulp bursts and sprays.
Slowly. Patiently.
A delicate touch helps.
I watched the old man scrape the other half of the lemon with his thumb as we watched the sun set, his eyes never leaving the horizon.
An hour later, he hands it back to me, picked clean.
“Tomorrow, bring a lime,” he says, and he walks back into the shadows.