We try to get out of the sun. On the lake, sun is everywhere, reflecting. We wait. We look for a menu but a guy named Frank is lookin at it. He gives it to us when he's done. We order chips and salsa. She says the white chips are OK, but the red and black ones are dyed and bad for you. We end up not eating them, but then I eat them.
We order chicken wings, three orders, one pound each, barbecue and buffalo and Asian sesame. We finish them all, lick the sauce off our thumbs, dip the celery in our ranch, pick the flesh from our teeth. I spill ranch on the ground, it hits her foot and sandal and she is nice enough to tell me she doesn't care.
We wait. The sun is hot and I forgot sunscreen. We order beer. I spill some on her hand. She is so understanding and I'm such a klutz.
We look at the menu again and decide that tequila is just what the doctor ordered. It take interminably long for them to arrive. The rims are covered in salt, there is salt in thr bottom of the cup, and the shot is more of a double. We drink, and wince, and the lines are far too small.
We wait. We leave. We have to bike back. She is a slow cyclist but I don't mind. She wobbles and o try to tell her it's OK, but she wobbles even more and I bike into a fence. She falls over, slowly. The wind takes her hat away.
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