I'd be sitting in the red lawn chair, spitting pits into a white paper napkin with a film of sweat across my lip and smoked pork smell slipping across the fence and settling in the fresh-mowed grass.
And you would take my hand with a coppertoned finesse as I fluttered my lashes in old glamour fashion and there'd be a balmy Georgia breeze and the world would be beautiful.
And there would be fireflies, flickering gems in waxy mint twilight and your skin would be sure, tough, calloused and worn, palms and fingertips stained red from the cherries.
Then I'd imagine that old Dodge Ram with the big sagging bumper and the trunk that smelled like fresh gasoline and we'd lie across the metal in the middle of the day just to feel the heat spread through our clothes, just to feel alive.
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