The prospect of S’mores fired her up intensely. From deep in her belly, she longed to stoke a fire, so its rising flames and cackling sounds could warm her and melt her ‘mallows till they softened and oozed their sugary goodness onto some good grahams. And the chocolate would quickly follow, it too melting in a marble sea of toasted flavours, perfect for a midsummer’s night on the range. Any range. With the stars ‘bove n up and the silver crescent of the moon shining on.

Oh, the beginning and end were here. For her, this was the adventure – this sit down, tales by moonlight and laughter with flames. This, the steaming cup of hot chocolate. Not the trek or setting up of the tent, not the food in tin cans and the bushes for bathrooms, no, her heart lusted not after one of those things but she sat there anyway, knowing the first bite of a S’more would be heaven or hell.

Which would it be? Only her lips could judge.

And if it was heaven, then the drive, the cold and the rain even would have been worth it. All of it, superb payment for one bit of this.

And per chance, it all went wrong and the S’more  experience was hell in itself, then what?

She says ‘It would still be heaven, of a lesser plane for then I know now that camping again, I need not do!’

———-♥♥♥———-

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