Look at her, you’d think she invented rhubarb. Rills of juice run down her chin, dribbling onto her fresh blouse. She’s wearing that big semi-toothy grin and holding onto those stalks like they were baby dolls bust out of Christmas wrapping. Golden-delicious sunshine all over her face, and her hair a scatter of blonde firecrackers set off a little too close.
Sometimes I think it’s okay to love her. Mostly I don’t admit it, but sometimes it’s all right as long as I keep it to myself.
Lord, that rhubarb. I don’t guess it’ll ever taste as tart. Even if she didn’t invent it, I don’t think she could ever improve upon it. This is how it should be, how it should always be. But nothing ever lasts, and I don’t think a person’s heart could stand it if it did.