Shellie Zacharia

I want a boy with a red truck, a boy with a black dog he lets ride in the back of the truck. I want this boy who wears flip flops on Saturdays, and maybe sometimes cowboy boots on Fridays, but not the shiny ones with really pointy toes, no not those, and sometimes the black dog sleeps curled on the front porch of his house, which is on acres of land, and there's a book and a bottle of red wine on a table on the porch, right next to a rocking chair, where he sat reading and drinking, right before he got in his truck to come pick me up, and when I run out the front door and hop in next to the boy who smells like fire and soap, I tell him I've painted my toenails scarlet just for him, and we head down to the overlook, where we lie down on an old quilt that I won't ask about, and we watch the stars and he points out constellations because he knows things about earth and water and sky, and he asks if it's all right if he kisses me, and I say yes even though I should say no, and later he asks, "What is it you like about me?" and I say, "Your truck," and he says, "No, tell me," and I say, "Your dog," and he says, "You aren't telling the truth," and I say, "It's too late for that."