“I wonder if there is life on other planets?” He stood looking out the kitchen window, feeling philosophical.
“Not only on other planets, but right here.” The lemon was sitting on the counter next to a large bowl.
“What was that?” He looked around the kitchen. “Who’s there?”
“Just me.” The lemon was coming to full consciousness, the intelligence of her species finally coalescing after millions of years of evolution.
“Who are you?” He looked around nervously for the source of the voice.
“Down here on the counter.” The lemon was not entirely sure how she was able to communicate and understand, but reveled in the experience. She would have so much to tell the others when they joined her.
He looked tentatively at the counter, expecting to see a gnome or some hideous form of alien life oozing toward him. Instead he saw the lemon.
A lemon? A talking lemon? “I must have had way too many beers last night.”
“No, really, it’s me.” The lemon was growing more comfortable with the communication process.
“I don’t think so.” He grabbed a paring knife from the drawer. “Not in my kitchen.”
He was talking half to the lemon that he was imagining was talking to him, and half to the part of his brain that was beginning to admit to the possibility of a talking lemon.
He paused for just a second, then sliced the lemon and squeezed it into a batch of guacamole he was making.
If he hadn’t been quite as smart, he might have believed. If he was a little smarter, he might have been intrigued by the possibility. But he was medium smart.
And no lemon ever spoke again.