From Oct. ’04:
It’s a glorious fall day in New England as I breeze between blazing-leaved maples on my Schwinn. In the bike’s basket is a bottle of wine, egg-salad sandwiches, and a loaf of Grandma’s zuchini bread. The wind has nipped my cheeks to a becoming flush; my hair is in an auburn ponytail; and I am wearing a twin-set with a long plaid skirt. I am terribly excited, for today Dick and I are going on a real old-fashioned picnic.
I wheel the bike up to his undisclosed location, and, spying me from the window, he springs out the front door and jogs up to meet me. Laughing, he picks me up and twirls me around, as robins twitter and the sky glows cobalt blue. We collapse into a big pile of raked leaves, and as we make out, (tenderly), I realize that I might just be the happiest girl in Connecticut, and that I hope things never change.
“Why are your eyes closed, dear heart?”
“Oh Dick! I’m trying to remember everything about this moment – how perfect you are, how lovely fall is, and how very happy I am!”
“Ah, kitten. You do get the queerest notions in that gleaming red head of yours.”
“Does it make you love me less?”
“Darling, even if you started going with Mark Ruffalo again, I would continue to enshrine you in my soul.”
I kissed him once more, and then my tummy gave an embarassing rumble. “I think its time for lunch,” I said, giggling ruefully. Dick tickled me a little, and then we commenced to stroll toward our favorite clearing. As we walked, I noticed a faint frown haunting Dick’s handsome features. I tried to draw him out.
“Are you worried about things at work, baby? I’ve noticed that those darn pundits have not been particularly kind.”
“Honey, when we’re together, I only want to talk of little things, and make jokes, and experience the us-ness of us.”
“Alright, Dick. I just thought that perhaps-”
“I’m to do the thinking for both us, sweet. Now, a little bird told me that Kitty McKitterson just had a litter – in your closet! Tell me of that.”
So I explained about Kitty, and how her babies are just the sweetest things, and we ate our lunch and became splendidly full. And then, after a post-prandial cigar, he laid me ever so gently upon the forest floor, and we spent the rest of the afternoon in amorous sporting.
I saved a single maple leaf, and damned if it’s not going in my diary, as a memento of The Perfect Picnic.