On these sunny days lying together, I pretend I am hammocked in the curls of her hair, swaying in a hurricane.  I can smell everything – her gum, her shampoo, her scented sanitary towel which is why I earn a firm flick on the nose when I take the petting too far below the belt.  I can feel the grass and the soil, the moss and the discarded burger wrappers. I can taste the burned metal from the small pile of spoons nearby, and the sour char of melted plastic and aerosols.

She rolls on top of me, her hip bones grinding against mine. With a cat grin, she bites my chin and plucks a chest hair out of my flesh. I smile and ignore the sudden pain, but she can read my eyes better than plain English, and my face has never been the most challenging of books.  I…