i. It's the hibiscus that catches your eye at first, a huge flower colored a bright and deep red, classic Starburst cherry wrapper red. The bloom has to be the size of your hand with fingers outstretched, the size of the paw of your giant black labrador waiting patiently at home. You stretch your fingers out, stretch yourself up to the height of the bloom, so you can see. The petals are soft as well-nourished skin beneath your hand, and you can't help but run a finger down one, can just barely stop yourself from caressing the extended stamen (almost obscene) by looking at the cilia protruding from it, covered in a heavy dusting of pollen.

They stand in front of you, hip cocked, posture beckoning. "You coming or what?"

ii. They kiss you just the way you want to be kissed, most of the time - tangled together, lying on your sides with your hips pressed tight to theirs, bodies one long line of contact - but lips just lightly brushing, maybe slipping in a swipe of tongue here or there, a contrast to the hot hard friction they generate with you. They slide a hand up your shirt, gently count your ribs, and then press down over the softness of your stomach, and you gasp into their mouth, trying to keep oh-so-quiet, because -

"Hey!" And their little brother is thumping up the stars and pounding on the locked door, even as you and he slide quickly, guiltily apart. "Mom says you two have to help with chores if you're both over!"

- of that, of their family home. You sigh and they meet your eyes and quirk their lips, and you go downstairs together, fingers just lightly brushing, not tangled together.

iii. It's fourth of July weekend, dusk darkening into evening on the day of. Balanced on your crossed legs is a paper plate, covered in scrapings from tepid potato salad and grease marks that dripped from your thick, fatty hamburger. You lean backwards, propping yourself up on your elbows and staring out over the lake, tracing the line between darkening sky and darkening water with your eyes. They settle themselves close beside you, prop you up a little, and sling an arm around your shoulder. You sigh and lean your head on their shoulder in return, closing your eyes for just a momet as you wait for the fireworks to start.

A star peers its bright face out from behind a cloud, and it's not a star, it's a planet, it's Venus, and suddenly you want to cry, because the stars will be here forever but the fireworks will flash and fly and go out. But you have no chance for tears, because the first firework flashes up, red like the hibiscus bloom, red like the feeling of your tongue mapping their teeth.

iv. Maybe the whole damn world is right and you are wrong, but right now you don't care. Right now you have the taste of artificial cherry coating your lungs, flavor mixed with musk and salt but ultimately overpowering. You have their spit sloshing around in your mouth and drying on your skin and you have fingers tangled together, the line of a throat arched before you, and you have happiness. You don't know what you'll do when it's gone, but you reckon you'll go out looking for it again, find it in the flash and bang of fireworks, the smooth soft skin of a child, the red of Starburst wrappers and hibiscus blooms.