Time and place. Where and when. I can’t remember all the details to speak the truth. I think it’s a few days after Palmer Haas watches-listens to me accomplish some self-healing near the barn. Almost noon. We’re in the kitchen and he’s looking inside the almost-naked refrigerator. He’s maybe needing something to fill his stomach for lunch.

I have other interests. Sherlock, Palmer’s horse, and I need some attention. I tell him, “We should take your horse for a ride.” And maybe he can take me for a ride.

Palmer has too much to do, though. I’ve heard it before. Numerous times. Busy stuff. Work stuff. Ranch stuff. He refuses to fall behind regarding his duties. I’ve never heard the guy say something like, “I’ll get to that tomorrow.”

He tells me, “We need food.”

“Provisions?”

“Yeah. Those. Whatever you want to call them.”

So, we’re alone. It’s just the two of us. Palmer and I ride into Kavlin. I drive, his truck. Sometimes he lets me do this. He sits to my right. The Ford F-150 bounces up and down on the dirt road. He probably has things on his mind like beans, meat, milk, and bread. Even cowboys need to eat to survive.

I have other things on my mind, like his muscled shoulders, his hairy chest, and well-built thighs.

We bounce ... bounce ... bounce along Shot Road in our own little worlds for more than ten miles.

The day is cool for August. Thank God because the heat becomes so overwhelming sometimes. Palmer has his red-and-black plaid shirt open. Three buttons. I see the outline of his muscular and hard chest, a firm pec, and a nipple. It’s a total turn-on for me. My attraction and liking. My longing. Desire. Something I shouldn’t see and enjoy, but I can’t help myself. Sweet life at its finest. One of the best things in that time and space.

Breaking the silence, he says, “Ginger isn’t liking me these days. I’m not giving her enough attention.” A palomino. She’s cantankerous. Four years old. A total bitch, in my opinion. Whoever buys her will have to show her some extra love and full attention.

“She wants to be a unicorn,” I tell him. “No joke.”

He laughs: arches his back ever so slightly, now his head, shows off the tight cords in his neck, his chest huffs. It’s sexy as hell, and the tool between my legs stirs me awake and semi-hardens. Once his laughter ends, he tells me, “All palominos want to be unicorns.”

I agree, and we both have a masculine chuckle. Watch him at the corner of my right eye. Obsessed with him. Fall in love with him, maybe. Even if he doesn’t speak much, even if he’s a quiet man and he’s untouchable.

A half hour later, I pull into Chandler’s, a market, and we both grab red plastic baskets. I tell him, “Meet me at the front registers in twenty minutes.”

He shakes his head and semi-grins. He looks boyishly cute. Younger. Innocent. But I know better. “Let’s shop together.”

I raise an eyebrow, surprised by his comment. Does a smile turn on my face? Perhaps. I’m not sure. I’m so taken aback. “Sure. Of course. Let’s do this.”

So, we shop side by side like cowboy boyfriends, lovers, or husbands. And bump shoulders together a few times, as well as hips. And once, we reach for the same bag of granola, and our hands touch and fingers entwine, but neither of us pull away or seem surprised. No way. We simply look at each other, and he says, “We like the same granola.”

“Looks like we do,” I tell him. It sounds lame to me. Totally weak. Sometimes life becomes lake and weak. None of us in reality can help this.

But he doesn’t seem to care and brushes his fingertips over one of my thumbs and asks, “We should check out the fruit next.”

I provide a soft grin and agree.