Flower Garden

I relax, breathe in the sunshine, and walk over to where you are reclining, careful to stir up a few leaves so I don't startle you.

Hi there! you smile up at me, What did you bring?

The question is, What didn't I bring? I got a little carried away this morning.

I open the wicker picnic basket and spread the blanket out before us, and begin laying out the food: water and juice, salad, sandwiches, white cheddar cheese popcorn and goldfish crackers, carrot sticks, strawberries, apricots, blueberries, kiwi, apples, oranges - even a pomegranate.

Wasn't sure what you liked... I explain, feeling a little self-conscious.

Don't worry about it - this is great, you say. I don't know if you mean it, or if you're trying to put me at ease. But your face looks sincere, so I smile back and sit down beside you.

We talk and eat, pausing to watch a butterfly ride the breeze, and to listen to the whirring of hummingbird wings zipping from blossom to blossom.

Ants scurry between the blades of grass, inchworms loop around the thick stalks of sunflowers, and a lizard watches us through sun-glazed, half-closed eyes. It's a beautiful day.

You pluck some sort of grass that terminates in a soft tuft, and tickle my leg with it. As my skin tingles, breaking into goosebumps, I imagine you tracing my entire body with that silky tuft. Suddenly the day feels too hot. Okay, I think, I need to redirect my attention.

Our conversation drifts in lazy spirals, through art, politics, music, love...
I'm suddenly aware that our tree's shadow moved away from us long ago. Time has escaped.

What time is it? I ask you. I hardly ever wear a watch; I meant to wear one today, but forgot.
Two o'clock. Do you need to get going?
I should, I answer. But I'd love to see you again.

You say:

I'll call you.

I had a great time today, but you should know I think of you as a friend.

What? And spend another day getting eaten by ants?! I'm outta here.