From ages five to eleven, I'd won the “Most Talkative” paper-plate award, always presented to me by an exasperated teacher before summer break. Even today, I could talk a gate off its hinges and keep up with Jason and all his little-kid babble. I could spin bullshit out of cotton, but in that moment, I couldn’t rustle up a single word. Instead of speaking, I held out my golden plumeria, twirling the stem between my thumb and forefinger. “Howdy.” You’re beautiful.
