At eighteen years of age, I'm old enough to work right along with the other ranch hands, without my dad breathing down my neck. That's important, because it means Dad trusts me to be responsible. It's also important because it's what led to me being here with Bobbie, putting up fence posts for the new pasture.
Bobbie is studying Agriculture at the university, and she's about three or four years older than I am. She's old enough to drink, and right now she's got her head tilted back, drinking from a can of cheap beer. I watch the beads of moisture on the can, and I watch the beads of moisture on her body. It's hot out here, and we're both sweating. I don't know which I envy more, her for having a cold drink, or that beer for being pressed up against her lips.
Dad doesn't mind if the hands have a cold one or two stashed in their coolers, but he does mind if I get anywhere close to alcohol, so all I can do is watch while Bobbie drains that can dry. I've got some Gatorade in the the cooler, and it's nice and cold, but somehow I'm too busy watching her quench herself to even think of my own thirst.
One of the beads of water drops off of that ice-cold can, onto the bare flesh of Bobbie's chest. It mingles with the sweat, and keeps on rolling down her body, down into that valley between...