This Monday last—Alison’s big 25—some feasted and others (*egh-em*) binged upon fresh fruit sangria, organic blueberry tartlettes, baguette, and vegan garlic pâté. Bready morsels and pitter-patters of burgundy littered our sheet cum picnic blanket (and no shits were given) as oscillating chitchat lollopped in a semi-circle about me.
As wont to such a locale, the air grew leaden with the crispest of relaxations—like the tightest of strings gradually slackening—and so each surrendered in idiosyncratic form: Chelsey and Alison prattled buoyantly; Erin quasi-committed to some French novel; and I let the sangria and sunshine massage me into grated sleep.
The name of the specific park folds itself deep into memory, but what a deliciously torpid state, what a birthday, what a day!
Photo credit (bottom 2): Erin Griffin