Paradise Lost

On another rainy Monday morning, with wet hair slicked to my face and a soaked, borrowed trench dripping off my office hanger, I decide to live in the memory of a warm Friday afternoon:

We swore we had no tests to study for, no work to finish, no calls to make. We had nothing to do and even less on our minds, and we took to the park.

When we saw the street-punks, skateboarders, and hemp-clad hippies congregating in their separate circles, laying on the grass and lounged up against the chain-link fence, we realized during the first few days of sun, the park is bound to be busy.

We left that crowd, and joined another, finding a street-side patio crawling with eager twenty-somethings, rejuvenated by the sun. We drank draft beer and grazed over bland plates, and by the time we got back home, buzz on our brains, the party was at my place and the couch was on the balcony.

No one had too much to drink that night, but we did wake with Saturday morning stomach aches, swearing, that we'd had too much sun.