significant how you hold the straw inside your mouth. Between the two front incisors, gently, from time to time having your tongue being slightly pinched by it. Be careful not to get cut. Possibly avoided if holding the straw sideways on the molars’ side, carelessly swinging. Or maybe suspended by the padded distance of the lips, while trying to taste the fluid that makes humming noises while it flows through the straw. When exactly are you breathing? Between each sip? In sync with your steps, one by two? When are you smelling the air outside? When are you smelling the contents inside, the scent of the juice?
What kind of straw is that? You’re dreaming about the lollypop-striped see-through bendy-straw. You’re imagining that it’d be thick, thick enough for some american vanilla milkshake to flow well through it.
Who are those people you saw on your way back, that way back with the straw.
People you once trusted. People who used to trust you. People who told you that you’d mean the world to them. That you’re precious.
The Traffic light takes too long for you to stay focused on previous and not long enough to concentrate on the next thought. The juice is long gone. But the straw dances in the empty cup happily.