She clutch her belly and complain she got the ache and nothing can be done about it. No, nothing at all. Shaking her head, she goes limp and closes her eyes pretending to faint. A few seconds pass. Slowly opening one eye, she looks at me then shuts it again. Taking off my shirt, I stand up and light a cigarette. The sun burns my flesh but whatever. Didn’t bring any lotion, and she ain’t got any cause she ain’t a pale fucker like I am. Lying there on a blanket passed down through my mother’s side of the family, she grows agitated at my lack of concern and abruptly opens both eyes and swears at me. There’s this bee, though. It keeps flying around. Keeps getting too close. Backing away, I tell her to stay where she is but she panics and starts screaming while waving her arms. Obviously I laugh. Rolling around on the blanket, she begs me to save her, and I do, but only after finishing my cigarette. After I’ve shooed away the troublesome honey maker, she rolls up the blanket and places it in her bag. She got tampons in that bag. I’ve seen them. And slips of paper adorned with random lines of her poetry. She don’t like me reading them, but when she’s sleeping I often do, and they make me smile and stroke her hair as she lies there so serene and at ease. Her words touch me. They get into my bones and make me feel feelings when for so long there was nothing in my heart save for a strange sense of apathy I could never seem to shake. Stood on tiptoes, she stretches her arms and yawns. Birds circle us overhead, and for miles and miles fields resemble rolling seas and so immersed in the moment, I struggle to tell the difference between what’s real and what’s not. She’s humming a song. It’s an 80’s one, but I can’t place it and she won’t tell me. Moving towards her, I slip my arms around her waist and rest my chin on her shoulder. She smells of apples. Apples and sleepiness. Sniffing her ear, my right hand goes up her top and cups her breast. You dirty old man, she says.