Initially Anneliese was not pleased to be paired with Eugene, who, while nice enough, was more than a bit nerdy in a very quiet way. The senior English homework assignment was to come up with poetic similes or metaphors for certain textures as found in nature. Soft, rough, slippery. Anneliese would have preferred being paired with Becca, but Becca was off looking at colleges. Anneliese was already accepted at State, and she hoped Becca would be sensible and go there, too. They could room together and everything.

“What do you think of the examples that Moke provided?” Eugene asked that afternoon after school. They were walking through the field towards Anneliese’s house. “Her laughter was as soft as a gentle breeze, weaving through the air with a delicate touch,” Eugene quoted.

Anneliese fake giggled, smiled, and shook her head.

“Yeah, kind of puerile,” Eugene agreed.

Anneliese grimaced. Who used a word like puerile? Then she grinned. Eugene did. “It is from nature, I guess,” she said. “Soft breeze.”

“I don’t think ‘His hands were as rough as sandpaper, weathered by years of hard work and toil,’ is exactly from nature,” Eugene said. “Where does Moke get this stuff?”

“Yeah, not exactly Shakespear,” Anneliese said.

“Also, wouldn’t years of use turn that sandpaper smooth?” Eugene said.

“You’re right,” Anneliese agreed. “Maybe it’s meant to be ironic.”

Eugene nodded. Off in the distance a dog barked.

“Now there’s something we could use,” he said. “Rough as a dog’s bark.”

Puzzled for a moment, Anneliese’s eyes brightened. “I get it. Bark. Like tree bark. Like that tree up ahead. Race you.”

Eugene, not sure what Anneliese was asking, was slow off the mark, and she outraced him to the tree. “Winner, winner!” she gasped, hugging the tree.

“Ha!” Eugene scoffed. “Soft and rough as the gasp of a pretty girl out of breath.”

Catching her breath, Anneliese turned. “Hey, did you just make that up?”

“Do you like it?”

“I don’t know about the pretty part.”

“I do,” Eugene affirmed.

“Well, feel this tree. I don’t think I’ve ever felt a rougher tree.”

Eugene ran his hand over the bark. “Probably take two lifetimes of hard work to sand it down.”

“Which two lifetimes did you have in mind?” Anneliese asked.

Eugene shrugged.

Anneliese said, “The roughest thing I ever felt was my grandpa’s bristly beard after he’d shaved. Before that his beard was long and soft. Really really soft.”

Wondering about this, Eugene’s hand went to his chin. “So should we use that? ‘Soft and rough as Grandpa’s beard.’ Two birds with stone. I think Moke’ll go for it.”

“Maybe,” Anneliese said. “You ever grow a beard? Or even a mustache?”

“Not really,” Eugene admitted. “I shave about once every other week.”

Anneliese moved her hand against Eugene’s cheek. “Uh huh,” she said. “Smooth. Smooth as a baby’s...”

Eugene blushed.

Anneliese grinned.

“So if we’re going to use my grandpa’s beard, all we need is slippery.”

“Slippery as Mister Moke’s homework assignments,” Eugene suggested.