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In the Produce
Section at Safeway Megan and I romp about, snatch fistfuls of bing cherries, apricots— you pinch at the tomatoes, intent, testing their give. We burst into giggles, and then cherry pits are sailing through the air, perfectly aimed, past your preoccupation. Mortified, you glance about for witnesses. “Girls!” you scold, but you can’t keep the grin from frisking your lips. We detect your amusement and it goads us on to further misdeed, a desperate fix before returning home. We pursue you down the cereal aisle where you pretend through stifled snickers not to know us. We are bent double with hilarity, impressing you with the number of cherries we have managed to cram into our jeans pockets, taking turns aiming at each other, lips pursed, firing point-blank. You smother your smile behind your fingers, hurry away down the aisle. “You girls,” you say. Each summer at the grocery store I pause to chew on a cherry, spit out the pit, and remember you. Chris McGuire |
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