A farmer pulled up in his pick-up truck with a smirk on his face and a blonde in the back seat. He opened his dusty door, and rested his work boots caked in mud on the crackly gravel. I shook his sooty, callused hand and inhaled the burnt charcoal of his flannel shirt. I had spent the weekend at my friend’s farmhouse in Ohio, and this farmer, Gerry, would drive me to the airport.
He pulled back the front seat, and my eyes locked with his passenger while she nervously scratched her ear. The blonde had buckeye-brown eyes, golden mascara, and a button nose. She was petite and I towered over her like a weeping willow to a dandelion.