Past the Shore

She asked if my glands had undergone a desert mutation that inhibited my ability to sweat. I asked if her skin was thicker to keep her insulated from the Wisconsin snow. We laughed, loud and with our heads tilted back, the way we wouldn’t around men. She kept driving. The sun so round and fine it looked as if I could pluck it right out of the sky. Fruit vendors dotted the road, vine tomatoes spilling out of recycled crates. We pulled over and bought a bunch, popping the hot fruit in our mouth like candy.

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