After the success of our picnic two weeks ago, my “inner inner inner” circle of friends decided to converge together again this past Saturday afternoon to eat artisanal meats and cheeses, and imbibe bitter foreign liquors with seltzer water and lemons.
When all of the expensive stuff ran out, we fought to the death for boxed wine.
The guest list, which was kept by Mr. R, was very exclusive. So exclusive, in fact, that no one except for Mr. R himself was truly sure if they were even invited until the morning of the picnic.
I was informed that I was not allowed to bring any guests, and if I did, they had to sit 100 yards away from our blankets on a log.
The fates brought us happiness at the first picnic. But at the second one, they also gifted us with muses, who burst forth from the subway very cranky, but nevertheless awash with color, and glistening with sweat.
In other words, all of the girls who came looked pretty fucking hot.