We were chewing roasted almonds. Salted, without the skin on. You threw one in the air and caught it between your teeth. You grinned at me and did it again. I was never able to do it until you taught me. We lay there, kissing on the bench, the ground scattered with sunflower seeds like rose petals at a wedding scene. The earth embroidered with cigarette butts – a shrine to youth and rebellion. I missed my train, again and again and again. Lips that tasted of cigarettes and toasted almonds.
