Cherries

Cherries are in season. They are expensive in Atlanta, but I had to have them. I blame an Oregon native (Portland’s just a town!) for introducing me to cherry obsession.

Then Sibelius popped by, dressed for the weather in slacks and a shirt that reminds me of Maurice. When I mentioned that, he said he is not surprised that my references all lead to films with sexuality as a major theme. I am surprised that he has watched the film. He manages to look pristine and makes me wonder if he is the only one in this city not sweating in 90 deg F.

“Your pond has ducks! Why does your pond have ducks?”

The ducks are a new addition. I think they are sitting ducks whenever I remember the new Georgia gun law. If Sibelius had not come by with his young cousin whose lips are redder than the cherries I had been obsessing about, I might have been interested in the ducks. I had other concerns pressing on my mind then, most of which involved paying attention to lips while trying not to be caught at it.

“Sixteen,” Sibelius informs me, smirking.

Children here grow up too fast. Hormones, dietary habits, genetics, blame what you will. They develop into adults too quickly. I wish they didn’t. And then they pile on loads of cosmetics, cut their hair in strange zig-zag patterns, add faddish diets, get push-up bras, shave off chest hair, and ruin nature’s beauty blossoming.

“Ducks. Why are there ducks?”

Ducks. Yes, let us talk about ducks.

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