We pretend we're ten again, running in swimsuits across a neighbor's yard. Unfortunately for Mr. Zuckerman, his fan sprinkler is waving back and forth beckoning us for a shower. She's laughing, like we used to when we didn't understand anger happens, things fall apart. Her feet leave half-baked impressions in Zuckerman's spring grass as she zigzags around the yellow contraption. The scene looks absurd, two barely clothed adults yelping to avoid the water. Except we all know we want to get wet.
It's almost holy, watching the water casually drop on her forehead, down her neck.
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