She’s quiet, so I’m quiet.
It’s not until we’ve got a blanket down and all the food set out that we finally start talking.
“How’s your day going?” I ask.
“It’s fine,” Ash says. “I’ve been looking forward to this. I haven’t been on a picnic since I was a kid.”
“Me either,” I tell her. “What made you think of it?”
“I don’t know,” she says.
Then comes the all-too-familiar silence.
I want to say something, but I’m honestly a little afraid at what she might tell me. Maybe it doesn’t have anything to do with me, but whatever it is, it’s hijacked the last week of our relationship.
The spread is mostly made up of the standard picnic fare, or at least what the internet says is standard picnic fare. There are peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, chips, dip and soda. The most interesting addition to the meal is the bar of raspberry German chocolate Ash brought for dessert.
We sit and eat, hardly talking more than to ask each other to pass something. Eventually, the awkwardness gets to be too much and I put down my sandwich.
No, that’s it. I don’t say anything or do anything else. I just put down my sandwich to indicate that I’m done eating and I leave it at that.
It’s not clear whether Ash knows what I’m doing and why or not, but she puts her sandwich down, too, and we start clearing up the food. We’re hardly speaking to each other.
We get the food put away and we start carrying everything toward the car, waiting a moment for a jogger to pass before crossing the paved walkway. Only, the jogger doesn’t pass. She stops about five feet away from Ash and I. She peers at us.
I squint through the evening sun toward the woman walking toward us. She looks really familiar.
“I’m sorry, I know this is going to sound weird, but do we know each other?” the woman asks.
“A friend of yours?” Ash asks.
“I don’t know,” I answer quietly, before looking back to the woman. “You do look really familiar.”
“What’s your name?” she asks. “I’m Heather.”
“I’m Mason,” I answer, looking to Ash for a moment for any kind of advice on what to do here.
“That name sounds really familiar, too,” she says. “Do we know each other?”
“I honestly couldn’t tell you,” I answer.
“I’m sorry,” Heather says, extending a hand toward Ash. “I’m Heather. I would tell you how I know your husband, but—”
“Oh, we’re not married,” Ash interrupts.
“Oh, well, I’m really sorry to bother both of you, but you just look so familiar,” Heather says.
This is more than a little weird until it clicks and I remember who she is. Now it’s a lot weirder. I’m just hoping she either really doesn’t remember me, or that she knows better than to let it slip.
“That’s right,” she says, her voice sounding remarkably like the mockery of the universe at my expense. “It was at the mall here in town.”
“Oh yeah,” I respond, hoping that’s as far as she goes. “I remember you.”
She starts giggling.
Oh please, for the love of god…
“Yeah,” she says. “I was just hanging out in the food court, waiting for some friends to show up when you came over and started talking to me.”