“Eww.” She returned her cup to her saucer. “What’s up?” Juice asked. “Lots of moon dwellers drink tea, so I figured I’d give it a try while I was here. This is lemongrass and mint something.” She peered into the cup as if it held a poisonous potion. “It tastes like lawn clippings.” “Have a cookie,” said Juice, holding out a lemon-filled treat. “It’ll cleanse your palate.” “Thanks,” said Cheryl, her projected image rising from her chair. “But I’m pretty sure my arm won’t reach your office.” She turned to face her food service unit. “Anyway,” she said over her shoulder, “I don’t run for an hour every day like you, so it’d just end up on my butt.” She patted what men and women alike privately hailed as a perfect derrière. The comment triggered a childhood memory in Juice of her dad telling friends how she got her nickname. “She went from crawling to running,” went his version of the story. “She skipped the walking thing altogether.
