Atop the sculpted hump of a riverside park, the grass cool and the soil moist, I unwrap a sandwich.
Several yards below, a blonde pipsqueak (pink pants, twirling pigtails) flees a mother-figure to study a homely pair of sunbathers. Fully clothed so late in the season, they’ve managed by slow negotiation to intertwine their bodies. The unexposed portion of his gut-mound tests the integrity of his sweatshirt; the sheer of her petrol-black tighted thighs reflects the sharp, white hot high noon light. They lay catatonic, neither particularly interesting, and soon exhaust the little gaper’s interest. In a blink she’s dashing toward the playground. The mother type picks up her grudging pursuit.
Helicopters flutter overhead.