Hey

Don't ya wanna ramble through the dew-wet blades of grass, over on that patch by the ball diamond? We could sit on the ground and poke our fingers through the   broken spot in the chain link, like when we were kids. Only, we didn't know each other then, but if we did, broken-chain-link-poking sounds like something that we'd do. We could do that. I could grab a bag of chips and you could bring some cold beer, and we could just sit there and kick at the dirt spots by the fence pole, next to the dugout, or the bleachers, I don't care. D'you care? Where we sit? Eatin chips an drinkin beer? Don't ya wanna?