I’ve always been far more sensible than to lay in an open field on bare grass. We’ve seen the movies, we know the scene where two lovers stargaze in the whispering ocean of green, but we ignore the reality of crawling bugs and buzzing cars on the nearby interstate. Maybe I’m a pessimist, but at least I don’t indulge on sticky sweet fantasies that are bound to imagination, never to be breathed into reality.

Now I couldn’t tell you why I let her drag me to a picnic. The standard wicker basket, fragrant jam, flouncy yellow sundress and all. She was sound enough to bring a blanket (a frilly tasseled one of course). Despite my impeccable abilities to talk my way out of anything seemingly glorious that in truth held an empty promise, I did this for her.

Hand in hand, I trudged through the meadow, weeds whipping at my ankles. The sun was blazing and sure enough, the hum of motors blared in the distance. She insisted we enjoy the fruits before the sweltering heat ate them away.

Straightening the corners of the blanket, she threw her hair up, an attempt to catch a breeze on the nape of her neck. Nevertheless, she wore a smile and radiated sweet laughter for miles away. We cracked open the tupperware, sticky with juices. And so as we sat, melting in each other’s presence, bleeding strawberry syrup on our fingertips, I realized that I needed nothing more.

With the cars honking, rays blazing, and ants slowly creeping their way up the sugary trails toward the basket, the stars finally aligned. Not the ones we were under, but the ones in the melody of her laughter and our heartbeats in sync.