We would start at dawn and finish in the middle afternoon. We would pick the apples and the pears and you would yank at the apples and the pears trying for the ripe ones only. It was cold in the mornings. We were tired and we were thousands of miles from home in a foreign country and we only worked for lodging and a very small salary.
In that golden glow of early Saturday morning light he stares into her eyes, dark, dark blue like a moody sky, they remind him of that lyric in that Guns n’Roses song, and her narrow face framed by hair yellow as fire. Her milk-white skin still unblemished, no pimples or scars; her nose is in perfect harmony and proportion with the rest of her face, and the two pink rose leaf lips, he imagines they taste of strawberry.