Eve sips her mug of hot honey-ginger and her cheeks flush McIntosh Red, a sweet, early fruit. We’re on hour number fifteen plus fifty-five-minutes straight together. But really, who’s counting? I bend to kiss the flat caps of her knees and she grins, laughing through a ginger fog at my googly-for-you eyes.
My Misty Ginger Haze.
She shakes her head, smiling, and sips her tea. I inhale her skin. I tell her she’s ripe for picking and she falls from the tree. I wander like a grazing Holstein through fall-blazoned orchards and take her in my mouth and swallow her whole. I’m drunk. I wobble and hiccup. I am holy cow.
Eve says, “It’s crazy. I dunno why it never occurred to me to get into it with a betty. But I’m switch as a clam it has.”
“You’re switch as a clam I occurred to you, little mollusk Thumbs?”
“So switch,” she says, yanking me down into her warm nets.
I’m a fool moon in her galaxy arms. She teaches me gravity.
I am lap cat. Hear me purr.