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20 B lue A ir About Peaches He wears blue jeans, a plaid shirt, smells of grease and after shave. She picks the hard dry peaches that fall out of season. The wind is cold. She wears her resistance lightly like her worn cotton shorts and shirt. She wants college in the fall. He wants babies in the springtime. She saves money at the bank and goes across the street to the thrift store. She kisses him in his car on Saturdays. He takes her to Burger joints and parties where his friends drink beer. She hugs her knees and looks at the stars. It is a warm summer. She smells ripe peaches on the wind. She has decided to be a doctor. Their kisses become wetter. He takes her hand and says, here’s a lesson in anatomy. His laugh grinds over her, stops the flow of wanting that edged her toward him on the seat. He starts again under a full moon, patient, hungry, his breath in her ears. He dips his face in the V of her legs and comes up smiling and wet like a dog from a stream, and she has lost her mind now. She can’t remember how it all happens. It’s okay, only she wishes they could have talked first. Her brain feels left out. Her body and his conspired alone. The ripe peaches she’d brought squish beneath them and juice runs down the seat. ...

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