“This is some yummy chicken,” she says to me, the words slipping out from her smiling lips, now glistening from the ample greasiness provided by the drumstick between her fingers.
     “Mmmrph hrrrh!” I reply back enthusiastically, nearly sending bits of chewed poultry across the table at her.
     “What?” she asks, obviously unfazed by my momentary lapse in table manners.
     I swallow, and clarify: “I said ‘Yeah! Tasty!’” I turn my attention briefly to the other items on the plate–corn on the cob, a small slice of watermelon, and the sort of white bread roll that you could squish into a little ball that’s roughly 1/16 the size of the original. The classic American BBQ chicken dinner. “Such a nice arrangement, don’t you think? The pink of the watermelon really sets off the yellows and browns of the corn and the chicken,” I say distractedly, my designerish instincts rearing their ugly head. She eyeballs me a little suspiciously, the left corner of her mouth rising ever so slightly in a knowing smirk but then decides to let it go. “Do you suppose there’s a handbook somewhere that tells you that this is how you put together a BBQ chicken dinner plate? Or do you think Americans are just born with the knowledge?”
     “Oh, no,” she says wisely, “this isn’t something you can get from no fancy book learnin’, but I really don’t think you can be born with this sort of information. I’m pretty sure this is one of those mystical traditions that are passed on from father to son at a certain age, maybe 12 or 13.” I ponder this theory for a moment, imagining a halcyonian spring afternoon and a father passing the stainless steel tongs, in slow motion of course, to his eager son–while a bag of briquettes and a can of lighter fluid looks on…
     I’m pulled out of my reverie when I realize that she’s staring into my eyes and smiling contentedly. “You’re cute,” she says, “so when are we getting married? I want to get started on that farm and the house on the hill we talked about.”
     “Oh, right. Um… how about Tuesday?”
     “Can’t. Busy Tuesday.”
     “Oh. Oh well.”
     “You ready to go find some dessert?” she asks me, as if that settles the matter.
     “Absolutely.” We dump our plates in the nearest trash can and stand a moment, entranced by the band that is playing a ways off, near the beer garden, deeper in the park. They are playing a terrible cover of Clapton’s “Wonderful Tonight”, apparently for someone named Keith, and it’s completely unclear whether this Keith person has requested the song for his wife/girlfriend/lover/harlot, or if he simply got an itch to hear some Clapton, no matter how butchered it may be. We agree that for some reason, the latter explanation is the more comforting of the two, and proceed towards the front of the park, where desserts are most likely to be found.