"Bite it."
He bit the straw, staring into her face.
"Now."
She bit the straw and he pulled.
The game was on. They had to stifle their own laughter. Straw and hay got onto their bodies. Straws caught in her hair and fell on her shoulders, freckles and straws ... he was captivated ... his mouth covered hers. She rolled him off. Her fragrance came to him as he lay on her.
"Here's where a mosquito bit you," she said.
They were lying side by side.
"Here's where a flea bit you," he said.
The sun blinked out as they played.
He imagined her in Switzerland, at St. Peter's, old Rome's St. Peter's: domes, arches, pillars and bleeding crosses: they were camped on tiny St. Peter's island: silence, meadows, woods ... where Rousseau had been happy ... where ...