This is a photo of what you see when you drive up to Matthew’s farm. I turn my music off when I reach this corner because if I get out of the car with a song screaming in my head then I’m sort of screaming to Matthew, in a bossy, I’m-a-city-girl kind of way. And then he’ll dump me.
He’s dumped me like ten times. And each time, I think of this view. I think: I’m sad I’ll never see it again.
But then, the last time he dumped me I figured out a solution: I could get back to the farm by bringing my kids. Just because he dumped me didn’t mean that he wouldn’t give my sons a chance to chase chicks in the shed.
My sons didn’t catch the chicks so much as torture them. Torture by chase. So Matthew came in, and the way he caught a chick—by moving his hands slowly slowly slowly and then fast—made me shiver. Then melt. I remembered everything about his hands.
And then it was me doing torture by chase. Lots of visits with lots of cleavage. But unlike the chicks, Matthew sort of took to it. And after a few more times visiting with my sons, I told him I wanted to come alone.
“Without the boys?” he said, like he didn’t hear.
But we both knew he heard me. Because we both understand that me coming alone is city-girl code for chasing the farmer.
So I turn the corner, as always, and creep up to the house in my car. I park on his front lawn, which is not a front lawn to Matthew, but it’s not a driveway, so what is it?
And I get out and my heart beats fast and my neck starts to sweat. And he looks so cute coming out of his house to meet me, wearing sneakers and shorts and the strongest legs I’ve ever run my fingers over.