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I remember we put the beer on ice in the cooler along with a whole watermelon and the glass beer bottles were always cold at the River that one lost summer, her in her gingham bikini and her wide round sunglasses concealing her eyes but not her smile as the heat and humidity fought to outdo each other, and how in the late afternoon the watermelon made that “crack” sound when I cut into it and we roasted wieners over a charcoal fire and I gave her my hoodie and the stars came out and, as we kissed, eventually, there was less gingham to be had.