Picnic Date

Picking that first girlfriend date hits different. Always. You want somewhere quiet. Somewhere close enough to feel her breath, far enough to talk without bullshit crowding in. The right spot lets two women who’ve never touched each other get close enough to know if they should. Not too public, so nothing gets policed. Not locked inside four walls either—four walls press the air back at you, make everything too loud. So you grab a blanket, a bottle of something cold, bread, cheese, fruit that drips when you bite it, and you spread it all out where the grass meets the trees. Trees make a canopy, a pocket. Wind stirs her shirt and it sticks a second to her ribs. Sweat gathers on her collarbone when she laughs. She leans over to reach the knife, her wrist brushes your thigh. The earth underneath takes every sound you make and folds it back into you. You talk less and look longer. When the sun drops, orange turns her skin copper and the blanket feels smaller than it did an hour ago. Every inch closer is a question answered without speaking. By dusk, the blanket is all that’s left between the two of you and the ground.