Take Wednesday off.

This might be the last picnic we ever have, you say--Y2k, the end of the world and all that Jazz--we gotta get it while we can.

She smiles.

Fake a raspy voice to the boss and crawl back into bed with stinky breath, sweat-fucking with the blinds wrenched up.

Sleep till ten.

Have sex in the shower--bite into shoulders. Eat a light breakfast: croissants, or bananas. Pack a lunch, nothing fancy--turkey, cheese and mustard on sourdough, crackers, apples, and the bottle of Chardonnay you've been saving for a special occasion.

El Dorado Park is huge; anonymity is a breeze, especially on a weekday.
That spot under the tree where no one can see, stretched on a blanket.

A breeze tempers the summer heat.

Lick sweat from lips.

Green grass throbbing in every direction like being lost at sea.

Hold hands with your eyes closed and thank the powers that be for a day as beautiful as this.

Feed one another--fingers floating under the soft material of a dress; her head thrown back against bark, chin angled at the sun, sweat between thighs.

She takes him in her mouth.

You said you'd do it, he whines.

She balks at extravagant promises; ends up giving in; looks at him like a stranger. It's always the same--don't ruin a perfect day. With his head in her mouth she sticks her finger down her throat and vomits in his lap, stroking him with wine and lunchmeat.