Two’s a couple. Three means I need four.
At a kindergarten picnic the kids ran wild while the grown-ups hovered by the food in various clusters. Men with hands in pockets talked about old punk bands. Women with folded arms whispered about schools and doctors. Sporty types peeled off layers, sweating and shouting as they tried to pass the ball to 4 year-olds who were running in the wrong direction. As usual, I couldn’t really make the commitment to join any of these groups. I spent the afternoon milling around until I finally took off my shoes and did cartwheels on the grass, where I found another popsicle stick for the collection.