I used to steal peaches right off the tree, a Kool-Aid face kid who hopped a chicken wire fence, ran to the trees fast as I could, plucked the fuzzy fruit with a twist and a swoosh of leaves. 

I don’t remember eating them, don’t remember if they were sweet as sunshine, or bitter as a reluctant spring. …

The bar’s centerpiece was a lucite cypress tree, backlit by pink and white fluorescent lights, each level of carved branch and foliage serving as a shelf for bottles of high end liquor, glowing like gemstones on laudatory pedestals.

He wore a fitted sport coat over a pristine white dress shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, staring into a glass of Old Fashioned, poking with a tiny red straw at a slice of…

He was hung, no need to mince words, he was hung like a horse, made Milton Berle look like a Chinese stereotype--

(Oh, now for Pete’s sake, that’s out of line, Joey.)

(Oh God, unclench, I’m dating a Chinese man, I can say whatever I want.) …

Please--Oh, God--don’t leave me, I mean you can’t, right, because, because, remember the time we got stuck at the top of the Ferris wheel and we couldn’t keep our hands off each other?

Ahem, okay, no, lemme try again, lemme give it another Boy Scout try.

Please--Oh, my love--you can’t leave me, ‘cause…