The Picnic (short story)

You used to say that I was unsentimental–that I never remembered any of the “special moments” in our life.

You would get mad because I didn’t make a big deal about things like anniversaries. But it’s just not my nature. I’m not a sentimental slob, I admit it.

But there was one moment—one anniversary—that I will never forget. I wish I had told you how much it meant to me, much I treasured it, still treasure it.

I can still remember every detail of that day…

It’s a gorgeous summer day—78 degrees, almost no humidity. Deep, deep blue sky that goes on beyond forever, and no clouds to break it up. You even mention the weather as we drive along: “You couldn’t order a more perfect day.” That’s when I know something’s up, because you never talk about the weather. You hate small talk.

It’s exactly the kind of day for what you have planned—almost as if we’ve received approval from the universe. I’m sure you think so—maybe even arranged it.

We’re driving in the country, past huge fields and the occasional farmhouse, barns, the whole scene. And then, following your directions, I pull off onto a side road, in a wooded area. I should have known that you had mapped out the route. Everything planned, an agenda for everything.

I slow the car so that you can find the spot you’d picked earlier. You have your eyes trained out the passenger side window, watching, watching,  watching some more.

Finally: “Okay, stop.”

I jam the brakes. “Here?”

You turn and nod. “Yeah. This is it.”

I pull the car onto the shoulder. Before we’ve even come to a complete stop, you open the passenger door and jump out. I turn off the engine, pop the trunk release, and get out of the car slowly, still not sure about all of this.

We are in a clearing at the edge of the woods, in a spot roughly the size of my living room. The grass is a lush green carpet.  It’s certainly the sort of place where you can have a picnic. Even with the road nearby, the space feels private, secluded. Apparently, that’s what you had intended.

You lift the trunk lid and take out the picnic basket. “Can you grab the blanket?” you ask, and before I can answer, you’re off toward the clearing.

I pick up the carefully folded blue blanket and close the trunk lid, a little too emphatically. I’m still not sure what to expect, but it seems in my best interests to go along. Slowly, I walk toward you.

By the time I reach the clearing, you’re standing right in the middle. “Why don’t you spread the blanket here?” you say, pointing. You’re flashing that smile, the one that I can’t resist. What can I do?

I smile back, briefly, then flick the blanket open and carefully lay it on the grass. I really want to get in the spirit of things, to please you, so I squat down and pull at each corner of the blanket until it’s wrinkle-free. It takes longer than it should.

You watch me perform my machinations, still smiling. Then you place the basket on one corner of the blanket. You kneel down, look up at me, offer me your hand. I take it and kneel next to you. You’re still smiling, and I can’t help but smile again.

I look around. You picked a good spot for a picnic. It feels like we have the whole woods to ourselves. The grass under the blanket is warm and comforting, almost reassuring. Other than the chirping of the birds, there are no sounds. (Except for the thumping of my heart, but I’m pretty sure you can’t hear that.)

“So, should we get started?” No small talk. Your green eyes are locked on me.

I’m not quite ready to begin, for a couple of reasons. Fear, for one. But mostly, for the moment, I just want to take it all in: your eyes, that smile—that smile—the way your sandy hair falls to your shoulders, the way you’re biting your lower lip. Something—instinct, my gut, my bones—is telling me that this is not going to be just another picnic. And I want to capture it all in my mind and store it.

I hesitate, then say, “Sure.”

“Do you want to go first?” you say, stretching your blue-jeaned legs out on the blanket. I stretch my legs out, too, and take my sweet time doing it–first one leg, then the other, then pulling and adjusting the creases in each pant leg.

Finally, the fine-tuning all complete, I say, casually, even magnanimously, “Why don’t you go first?” What a gentleman.

“Okay.” You reach into the front pocket of your jeans and take out a yellow sheet of paper. Oh great, she wrote it down.

You unfold the paper carefully. I can see the writing from the other side. It’s definitely a list. “This is sort of like Letterman’s Top 10 List,” you say, “only shorter. More like a Top 3 list.” You laugh, a little loudly, and the sound seems to fill the intimate space.

I laugh, too, and I’m reminded of the day we met, three months earlier—the crowded party, some friends, some strangers, me hiding in the corner near the bar, just trying to get through the evening. Then I caught a glimpse of you, talking to a friend, and your smile pulled me out of the corner, toward you, toward us, toward this moment.

“Well,” you say, “as you know, we’re here to celebrate our three-month anniversary. Ta da.” You laugh again.

You seem unusually self-conscious, so I try to put you at ease. “What do you give someone for a three-month anniversary?” I ask. “Let’s see, the first anniversary is paper. Maybe for three months it’s paper clips.” It’s not a very good joke, but you laugh anyway.

“Actually,” you say, “that’s the first thing on the list.” You look at the sheet, and then read, almost formally, “You make me laugh. You have a great sense of humor.”

I smile and look down. “Thanks,” I mumble. You’ve told me this before, but now it’s on paper. Official.

“Number two,” you say. “You respect me. I can’t tell you how much that means to me.”

I’m still looking down at the blanket. I can feel my ears redden. What a gentleman.

“Number three: You listen to me. We communicate well. We have a great connection. That’s very important to me.” You look up from the list, and right at me.

When you say this and then look at me, it strikes me. I can almost feel it. How we’ve arrived here—at this picnic, at this moment. Our mutual history of bad relationships. In your case, for all of the reasons you’ve just listed; in my case, just bad luck. And immaturity. And fear of commitment.

But this is different: The seemingly endless list of shared interests. The long, intimate conversations. The schoolboy thrill every time I see you. The longing when you aren’t around. I used to roll my eyes when I heard such gushing remarks, but now they ring true. I can see why people say such things.

I know you feel the same way, and I know that we are both hopeful—and scared—at the same time. The word “potential”—a word I’ve avoided, even scoffed at—has made its way into my head, and it’s still there.

“One more thing,” you say, and now a serious look replaces the smile. “This is on the ‘bad’ list,” and you make the air quotes. I guess I hadn’t noticed that list. I bite my own lip.

You sigh and look past me toward the road. Not a car has passed. You definitely chose a private setting.

You look back at me, still serious. “I almost hate to say it…but you don’t seem to like to apologize when you’re wrong.”

Ah. The other night.

I start to say something—probably something stupid—then I stop. Instead, I just nod and unclench my teeth.

You put the paper down and look at me in anticipation. “Okay, I’m done. Your turn.” The serious mood has passed. You even manage a little smile, as if to encourage me, and can’t wait to hear what I have to say.

My turn. MY turn. My mind is churning, turning, considering. Should I come clean, tell her that I hadn’t gone to the trouble of writing anything down? That I’d had doubts about this whole thing from the beginning? No, bad idea.

No, I haven’t made a list. But a list is running through my head. Had I written it down, it would have looked like this:

1. You laugh at my jokes. Most of the time.
2. You’re the kindest person I’ve ever known.
3. You hold my hand wherever we are, even just sitting on the couch.
4. You straighten my tie when it’s crooked.
5. I’ve never been happier, or more hopeful. 
6. I want to make you happy.
7. I’m putting someone else first, for a change.
8. You make me a better person.
9. I want to be the best companion you’ve ever had.

So, yeah, in fairness, my list is longer than yours. And there is no “bad” list.

I really want to tell you these things, read from a list, too, but I’m nervous, and I can’t bring myself to say them out loud.

I clear my throat. “I didn’t really write anything down,” I say. I watch your face for any signs of disappointment. Nothing. I have your undivided attention. I’m the sun, the center of your universe.

I manage to return your steady gaze, then I look down at the blanket again. Just then I notice the silence. No cars. The trees are motionless. Even the birds are quiet, as if they’re waiting to hear what I have to say, and hoping I don’t blow it.

Then, suddenly, the realization, the dawning. I want this relationship to work. I’m not running away, that’s the main thing. More than one previous girlfriend has said to me–some angrily, some tearfully–a variation on the same theme: “You’re afraid to let anyone love you.” A few said it gracefully. A couple of them punctuated the sentence with an artfully placed obscenity.

And, as much as I’d hate to admit it, they were probably right. I’ve been hurt before, and so I approach every relationship defensively, just trying to protect myself. I always look for an escape route early, any sign or warning that things are going badly, then use that as an excuse to bail.

But that isn’t the case this time. I really, truly, want to be with you. I don’t want to run away this time.

And then, quickly, I decide to throw all my cards in. In a flash, before I can fully process them, the words come to me. I’ve been waiting for years for the right occasion to say them and really mean it, have rehearsed it again and again. This is the moment, so I say it quickly, before I can talk myself out of it:

“But I just want to say…I love you.”

I want to look around to see how that sounds to the birds and the trees and the rest of the world, but I keep my eyes on you.

You’re still looking at me, and then that smile appears, and I realize that however rushed it may have been, it must have come out right.

You reach out and stroke my arm. “I love you, too,” you say, softly. I can still feel your hand on my arm. My ears redden again.

You kiss me on the cheek, then say, “Let’s celebrate.” You open the basket and take out the bottle of wine and two glasses, put them on the blanket, and hand me a corkscrew.     

I laugh. “You know I’m not good at opening wine bottles,” I say. 

You laugh, too. “It’s okay. I trust you.”

I take the corkscrew and pick up the bottle. Before I start, another thought comes to mind.

“One more thing,” I say. “I’m sorry about the other night.”

And there’s that smile again.

“That smile,” I murmured.

A blast of wind brought me back to the present. I looked down. The headstone was completely covered with snow. I bent down and brushed the snow off, revealing your name and dates. One year ago, today.

With my other hand, I placed the flowers—pink roses, your favorite—on the headstone, right next to your name. I traced each letter slowly, all the way to the end.

Then I reached into my coat pocket and took out a piece of paper that I should have given you that day, and placed it inside the bouquet.

I stood up, my knees protesting. Another gust hit my face. I stood at the headstone for another few minutes, ignoring the wind.

“I remember,” I said finally. Then I turned and slowly walked toward my car, my feet crunching in the snow.