When we got to the park, there were still splotches of shade in the grass, shaped by the cirrus clouds, stretching languidly like man’s hand to reach God in the Da Vinci. We laid out our blankets on the other side of the park, where less dogs were unleashed, and we could see the skyline and watch the tennis players. First, we leaned up on our elbows, cracked our cans of carbonated water, and drank those until they were gone. She asked, “What do you want to do for dinner tonight? I started to answer, but then she interrupted, “No, wait, nevermind. It’s too early to think about dinner.” Then I tried to read, but the clouds had already given up on reaching the heavens, fallen down into the bosom of Twin Peaks. So the sun was shining through too bright to keep my eyes open looking at the page. I rolled up my jacket for a pillow, laid back, and closed my eyes. I could hear whop … bounce, whop … bounce, whop until there was a bounce and then a “dang it” instead of a whop. I don’t know how long I listened to the back-and-forth of the tennis ball before I fell asleep. I woke up long enough to realize I was too hot, almost sweating. I leaned up, pulled my shirt over my head, and rolled over to lie on my stomach. When I woke up again, she was asleep too, covering her face with her arm. The tennis players had changed. A blue-hatted young girl was throwing an orange frisbee to her black-and-white dog. The children were squealing on the jungle gym. Three adult women were sitting in the grass near us, talking about their jobs and their vacations and other people and their jobs and their vacations.