Real The best yield the garden bore was before we soiled the spot with seed, before Henbit and Bittercress became weed because we didn't plant them there, and the fence was neatly stacked in lumber racks at the hardware store with a pressure-treated chance at perfectly plumb. Our significant others, too, kept their figures firm as the flesh of a fresh cuke twenty years into our marriages before we met them, their priorities in prim rows well-tilled and running parallel to our own. The summers were never dog-tick hot, spouses always were, and our houses rarely required repair, till we—our very real bodies with their very real hungers tiptoeing for the ripe glint of it all at the top of the trellis—found the beans were soft in spots and less than ideal, but still, once swimming in a thick confession of butter, infinitely more filling.
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