Summer in small counties is always sticky, like maltose that cannot be melted.
She squatted in the alley selling popsicles, her plastic sandals stepped on the sun-heated concrete floor, and there was dust between her toes.
He passed by on the bicycle with peeling paint, and the brakes made a harsh and arrogant sound.
"Hello."
He threw over a bottle of orange soda, with water beads still hanging on the glass bottle, and it rolled to her feet.
She looked up and saw the smile on the corner of his mouth, which was naughty and angry, like the strongest gust of wind in summer.
Later she found out that he bought the bottle of soda with his last five dollars.
Later, he pressed her against the old locust tree in the alley, breathing hotly: "Do you want to follow me?"
She didn't say anything, just stood on tiptoes and kissed him.
Intention: growth
