Second HoneymoonAnne Boyer
I was a such a square, but Johnny named his own horse Trigger. No saddle. "Hold the mane. He's broken. I swear it." The gondolier jetted us to the Torrid Gulf for crater baiting. Lunik II played coy. In 1959 we petted. In 1960 he dared me ride that horse. By the Sea of Fecundity, I read his hand: under the mound of Mars paint and thinner, three small animals, a faintness of math. The shape of romance then dauntingly spherical. Now the satellite tickers with arthritis and math. No one goes back to Lunarica. Johnny grills up our stallion with salt.
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