Fruit Salad

Red.

I was five.

It was hot but that was okay. I had gotten out of school the day before.

In the summertime, I was allowed to play outside until the street lights came on. More likely until my mom stood on the porch and yelled my name.

First and middle.

Then I'd pretend I'd forgotten about the lights so she wouldn't get mad at me.

I wouldn't be home before then. Never ever.

If I got thirsty, the hose was my reprieve.

I loved summer.

Except at the beginning. None of my friends lived close by. Playing alone was less fun than playing with someone else.

I was swinging at the park down the road when we first met.

You sat beside me and held out a cup.

"Watermelon," you offered.

My lips were stained red for the rest of the night.

Orange.

We were nine.

Nearly inseparable since you'd moved to my neighborhood. Our families both loved it and hated it.

We got in trouble. A lot. Our moms said we needed structure.

We picked soccer. Together.Always together.

We loved summer.

I wasn't good, but you were. You ran back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Pass after goal after steal.

I sat on the bench and watched you. I only ever watched you.

When you took your breaks, you sat beside me. I offered you my plastic baggie.

Your hands were sticky from clementines when you went back onto the field.

Yellow.

We were thirteen.

It was late. We were spending the night outside. The air was sticky. The stars were bright.

"Truth or dare?" I said.

"Dare."

I passed you a lemon.

"Twenty seconds. Don't make any faces."

Your eyes held stubbornness, even as they shone with tears you wouldn't let fall. You remained stoic.

"Truth or dare?"

"Dare." I said.

I had to taste the lemon too.

But it was much sweeter when it was on your tongue.

I loved summer.

Green.

We were sixteen.

My 92' Chevy Blazer was far from luxurious, but your laughter was rich enough to make up for any perceived poverty.

No one knew. No one needed to. It was you and me, always. That was our promise. Every night. Every morning.

Your hand was on my thigh. Then it was higher. And higher.

I swerved.

You grinned.

The apple perched in my cupholder rolled to the floor.

"Five second rule." You lived by it.

I didn't hear your teeth sink into the fruit.

I did hear the soft moan that fell from your lips.

I parked my Chevy on the side of the road.

I loved summer.

Blue.

We were twenty.

You were distant.

Physically and mentally.

You kept saying it was mutual. That it was for the best. Coast to coast was too far and we needed to experience college.

I only wanted to experience you.

You said we'd stay friends. You and me, always.

We were home from school. Back in our place. You. Me.

Him.

Too crowded.

The blueberries flew from his fingers and you laughed when they hit your nose. Your chin. Everything but your mouth.

I missed when your laughter was for me.

I used to love summer.

Purple.

I'm thirty-two.

Sitting on the porch, watching her play.

Her giggles wash over me as her little legs chase the cool relief of the sprinkler.

She loves summer.

The front door opens.

The diamond on your finger catches the sun as you hold a grape to my lips.

I can't help the smile when I look at you. The mother of my child.

There's a bowl in your lap. Fruit salad.

In it, every flavor of you and I.

I love summer.