ABSTRACT
You know that song about the moon hitting your eye like a big pizza pie—how that’s amore? Well, that’s what the moon was like on our honeymoon, only it wasn’t a pizza pie, it was a honeydew. A fat juicy honeydew, perfect, like I sometimes get for my fruitstand, almost white, but with the tiniest bit of yellow in it to remind you about the sun that grew it, hanging loud in that night sky, looking like it would fall right into our laps. And if it did, it’d pop right open, split clean in half: half for her, half for me. We’d roll back on the cool night grass on the edge of that sand cliff like we were the only people in the world, lay back for a while on the edge of our lives together, and we’d be sucking sugar from that honeydew moon.
