"There is no news today," the high-collared man with the polite blue suit and lightly-tamed curls said through the television. He straightened his sheaf of papers, gave a distant smile, and got up from the desk. We didn't see him again that day.
Tea was on, so we had a cup. Michael had two, the second without any sugar. It was lovely out that day, the kind that begged for a picnic.
We brought our basket to the market and filled it up with fruits and cheese and rolls and a salami and went out to the meadow near the river. George produced a jar of honey which ended up on everything, including the food.Ellen had shrieked to discover that one of Michael's entire glasses lenses was stuck to her backside after the two had fallen into a tussle over who got the last roll.
The dandelions blew harder than the wind, leaping off of the airy waves and right through our hair. The smell of blossoms dallied about us as if conjured up from shared memory, as none were within immediate view. Only upon standing and brushing ourselves off did we spy the bunch of them growing just overhill.
Shoes sounded like a dreadful idea, so we left them and romped through the grass. Our tanned ankles emerged with wet blades of green plastered across them as our pants earned another shade of summer experience.
We took turns riding the bicycle home. I can't recall who got there first.