Labor Day, 2018

When you wake me up with a kiss on my forehead, you tell me, Take a shower, we’re going out to breakfast this morning. I drive down to the strip district in my favorite baby blue romper, and you sing "Africa" by Toto to the cars as they pass by. We speed down the strip, not noticing the brightly colored eight-by-eleven posters on each door stand telling us Closed–Labor Day. My favorite diner, Pamela’s, closed, and every other sit-down restaurant, closed. Except for one or two, whose lines stretch down the street. The people fuss in the late summer heat, moving this way, and that, but not going anywhere, just trying to create the ghost of a breeze.

You hold my hand across the thin layer of sweat on our palms. Pulling me to your right, then to your left after we cross the street, so that you’re closer to traffic. You say you’re a horrible dancer, and you trip me nearly half the time trying to be smooth. We stop in the McDonalds on the corner, and order two breakfast meals with two very large orange juices.

The largest you’re allowed to give us, you ask the cashier, but she’s sullen and tired; she’s not in the mood for your jokes. After paying, you turn to me, make a face, a pull out a chair for me as we wait for our fast food.

We make our way back to my car, moving swiftly through the humidity, only stopping quickly to purchase a bouquet of flowers, McDonald’s bag in my other hand. This time, you drive, and we end up at a Fine Wine and Spirits. You leave the car running, as you step in and out, leaving with the largest bottle of cheap champagne you could buy. You toss it in the back seat, with the McDonalds, and the flowers, and we speed away towards Oakland.

The streets are busy with people walking around, somewhat aimlessly, as most of the stores around the university are closed, or have shortened their hours. We stop at every red light on every corner, humming along to today’s top hits, and gossiping about our friends.

We get to Schenley Park, and you park my car parallel between two others. You gather up the McDonalds, the champagne, the orange juices, and the emergency blanket I keep in the trunk. I carry the flowers, and we march into the thicket of trees. We walk for a while, I jokingly complain about my romper chafing my thighs, you tease me about hitting the gym more often. We laugh.

You lay the blanket down in a small clearing off the stone path. It’s early autumn, the trees are still wearing their green, and gold dresses, and the forest floor is clean. The shade offers repose from the beating September sun; it becomes almost bearable. When the pockets of sunbeams strike your dark, curly hair, it glows like warm embers, and your eyes, a deep brown, shimmer like warm honey. We pour the champagne into what remained of our orange juices. The McDonalds was a little cold, but I was so hungry I didn’t care.

Legality suits you, my love.

So there we were, drinking McDonald mimosas, eating McGriddles, and toasting to my twenty-first birthday. This is a small moment I want to survive, to remember in the forgotten years to come.