Peaches. He reminds me of peaches.
It was our second date of sorts. A double with friends. I got peach soda at the general store, he, ginger ale.
The bubbles fizzed in my throat as I sipped, trying to find words to say. It is always so awkward at first, talking. I think I have vocabulary-beavers living on my uvula who build word dams whenever my mouth opens to speak. They keep back the flood of adjectives and sweet nothings with the cut trunks of quaking, nervous trees.
We went to his house and ate dinner with his family. The crows feet at the corners of his mother's eyes were soft like folds in fabric. Her face was touchable, like a mother's should be.
She offered us enchiladas, a whole variety of meats and cheeses within them and teas of raspberry and peaches. The smile she offered with it was genuine, more so than I had seen in years.
As I thanked her, I filled my polkadot glass with peach tea.
With the first sip, I knew it was sweet, sweet as his kisses.
We drew outside on his driveway in the light of a dying sun. I drew a face as big as a car, with dinner plater eyes. It's mouth was purple and it's skin a yellow outline, but it's eyes were pink.
I drew its irises as peaches, for all I could taste were those fruits.