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We have been hiking for an hour in the North Georgia Mountains. It's a beautiful fall afternoon, with a slight, crispy chill in the air. The leaves are beginning to change colors, and some of them have already fallen to rustle under our feet. Despite the cool temperature, both of us are sweating and hot from the climb.

We are slowing now, and we have reached a flat ridge. Relieved of the incline, we hold hands and walk leisurely side by side. We hear the trickle of a stream beside us, and as we progress, the trickle becomes a quiet murmur, then grows into a thundering roar. Just ahead and to our left is a bubbling, frothy pool, and feeding into it, a beautiful waterfall, acting as a prism to the afternoon sun.

We decide to stop here and open our backpacks. We have packed water and slices of oranges, apples, pears, and strawberries for a little picnic. "This spot is perfect!" I exclaim, overcome with amazement at our own private little waterfall. We drape our picnic blanket over the smooth, flat, dusty earth, right beside the waterfall's little pond, so that there is a slight mist falling upon us.

"You're so sweaty," I giggle, "I love it when you're sweaty." You have removed your shirt and bundled it up underneath your head, reclining and gazing at the waterfall. I place an orange slice on top of your salty, warm belly, just below your navel, and remove it with my lips, allowing my tongue to lightly brush against your skin. Your hand moves ...

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