If I had an... Auction

You grasp your plastic paddles with sweaty hands, arms poised. You can't be slow. Not here. The auctioneer's words are ready to sprint, each syllable raised onto tip toes like a man in cleats waiting for the gun to sound.

And you are ready too, aren't you? Ready to hear my life spilled out before you. But these aren't lamps and highboys you're waiting to bid on. No, this auction doesn't concern itself with useless things.

You are waiting to bid on the smell of my grandfather's garage on a muggy July day, all the musty memories of a ten-year-old's drowsy summer.

Or maybe you're saving your money for the taste of a lingering kiss or the feel of warm fingers brushed across exhausted lips.

Maybe you've come here today because you've heard that those long summer evenings might be up for grabs and you want them for your own. You want the sound of crickets and the rush of the river in the distance; the soft rustle of wind through the leaves; the smell of dirt and dust and the slight hint of sunscreen on bare arms and legs.

Get ready. The auctioneer smiles out into the crowd. 

"Our first item up for bids," he says, "is the chill of water on hot skin. The smell of chlorine. The distant whinny of a horse."

You grip your paddle. Ready.

"I'll start the bidding at five hundred. Five hundred. Five... to the lady on the first row. Do I hear six? Six..."