They’re stood on a patch of grass that, until this morning, was covered. It has turned a ghostly yellowish white. He watches as she kicks at ridges in the compacted earth. He circles her and she turns away: it is a slow dance for a damp day.
“It’s not the colour I expected”, he says, plucking a strand from the mud.
She squats low to the ground and looks all the way up at him. Her eyes widen. “Eat it.”
He brings the blade of yellow grass to his mouth, chews it, swallows. That was the first night they kissed.