Fresh produce

Rob’s dry spell was quickly turning into a dust bowl drought. It had been so long since he scored that he was seriously considering online dating. He had already mentally outlined his bio, highlighting his strengths, glossing over any weaknesses. His college lacrosse pic was close enough.

That was until poker night when he walked into Jay’s. Homie was sitting on his couch laughing his ass off at some lame reality show called Catfish. Some dude had hooked up with a chick online, been swapping sexts with her for eight months, even sent her cash only to find out “she” was really another dude.

Shaking off that “dodged-a-bullet” feeling, Rob briefly considered his grandmother’s offer to introduce him to that nice girl at church. But all he could think of was Sister Wives and how much he hated gingham.

There must be a better way to meet women without having to dive into the bar scene or give up sex completely.

He headed to the family cabin for a long weekend, hoping the mountain air would help clear his head, maybe give him a new perspective. He’d grill some steaks, sleep late, swim in the icy stream that ran along the edge of the property. He needed to stop on the way up for a watermelon. They always tasted better when chilled in mountain water.

The ubiquitous roadside produce stand at the neighborhood Fred’s Store parking lot featured an entire table of melons. The equally ubiquitous farmer, clad in the traditional overall-faded-tee-trucker-cap uniform, replenished the husk heavy corn, ignoring Rob as he tested the ripeness of the melons.

As he wended his way around the peppers, squash, and tomatoes, Rob caught sight of the farmer’s lusty daughter. Her lascivious smile and the teasing way she twirled her hair a brazen advertisement that the produce wasn’t the only fresh thing at the farmer’s market.