They stalk celebrities and cultivate their bacteria into cheeses.

We’re at the construction site where the new I-69 will cut through town.  We watch the traffic pulse on I-30.  They would never see us, here, naked, on this giant, flaming orange earth mover, as they pass by upwards of 75.  We’ve just had sex and are waiting for the sun to set before we head west.

“It had been a while,” I say.

Colletta looks confused.  “Since when?”

“Since we snuck onto a construction site and defiled an earth mover,” I say.

She considers it. “I prefer dump trucks, I think.”

“Agreed.  But any port in a storm.”

“Have you heard of cheese stalkers?”

I wait for the punch line.  It is silent except for the hiss of traffic and the raunchy calls of mating birds.

Colletta has always been a master of knowing when I need a little something more to go on.  “They are like the cheese paparazzi,” she says.

“They take scandalous photos of Jarlsberg?”

Her eyes flair with excitement.  “Of course not!  They stalk celebrities and cultivate their bacteria into cheeses.”

“You’re lying.”

“God’s truth,” she says.

“You don’t believe in God,” I say.

“No, but I’m scared of him.”

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