Strawberry vines make my hands itch. I don’t mind. She sings Otis Redding as she pops the sweet fruit into her mouth. Two more days and the little rubies resting on the end of green velvet cushions would be mush. Just right for jam making, she tells me, throwing the rotten ones at me as I tease her. Juice clings to her calloused hands, rings and watch still on. She doesn’t care much about getting sticky. Our skin smells warm from the sun as we lay in the soft grass under the cherry trees my grandma planted all those years ago, long before me. The basket of strawberries is forgotten for now. The gentle breeze whispers through the tree branches above us and through our hair. The cherries aren’t quite ready, I tell her as she knocks her head against mine. The freckles dusted across her cheeks, her lips-stained bright pink from the fruit, make my hands itch to reach out. We stay here all afternoon. It’s okay, though—we have plenty of time.