You told me if my heart were a fruit, it would be James’ giant peach. I told you that, that wasn’t a fruit — it was a book. You said it was a book about a fruit, and that should be close enough. We spent the rest of the night arguing semantics while you traced shapes onto my naked back. Sometimes love is exactly what you always thought it would be: your fingers pressing playfully into my sides until I laughed out that almost only counted in horseshoes… horseshoes and peaches. And sometimes hand grenades.