Come home from futbol pasted in salt from running two hours under a scalding sun, and without showering or anything foolish like that, belly-flop right down into the kiddy pool, shins creasing the sides, water sloshing everywhere, your back taco-ed and your hips hard to the plastic floor. Then pull your laughing disbelieving girl-child in with you, just to show her how medicinal it is. Then have her go inside and bring the radio out, then return for a cold one from the fridge because she forgot that part.
Then tune in some cumbia on one of the Latin stations out of Caldwell or some dub and dancehall on Radio Boise and start up a game of Wiffle Ball with the girlchild standing to bat in the kiddie pool while you pitch from the shady spot under the patio umbrella where the table serves to both hoist your beer and deflect views of your near-naked self from the neighbor woman next door who couldn't care less anyhow but you're trying to be somewhat discreet because your shorts are white and wet yet you can't go inside to change because that'd alert the wifey to all the fun you're having making a soggy delirious mess of the yard and your Sunday afternoon as the girlchild belts one whistling past your ear and your slipping lunge and she's rounding second, dauntless and scampering to third, then incredibly, ill-advisedly heading for home, daring you to throw it which you do, with real zing because the little tart has upped the ante, her long legs flowing and her laugh tripping you up as the white ball kisses the air next to her shoulder and she jumps with both feet into the home-base pool shouting safe! safe! safe! -- an inside the park home run, an inside the heart home run, the crowd going wild as you mob her at the plate with kisses.
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