Standing on a rise in Eldorado Park, the three waited in their ninja attire, hands on their hips, legs apart, and from where Caron sat, festering with rotten motives. Unprepared for this, on a day she had planned a picnic, on a quiet day in the sun with a packed lunch, blankets, a book and though she’d never use it, she wished she had brought her key chain with the mace.
Macon said, “Forget them. Put out the food and see what happens next.”
Caron whipped the blanket out and fanned it in the air; like a plaid flag to summer bliss, it stretched across the green grass. From her basket, she produced napkins, plates, forks and knives, jars of pickles, olives black and green, potato salad, fried chicken and corn-on-the-cob. She laid things out… enticingly.
Macon grabbed a plate and fork. “Let the feasting begin.”
Scooping a heap of potato salad onto Macon’s plate, she looked over at the three, still there, still with their hands on their hips, still with those grins and their rotten attitude. “They haven’t moved.”
“Ignore them, Caron.”
“How can I? Just look at them, with that look of defiance, that look of ‘make me’, that look of ‘we outnumber you.’ It’ll never change, Macon, never.”
“Oh come on, Caron, you know what to do.”
“I shouldn’t have to,” she said, looking over her shoulder.
“Caron.”
“Fine.”
She pulled out the last container, opened it up and piled the contents onto a plate.
Like a tornado, the three twisted, spun and somersaulted over to the blanket. With their hands on their hips, their legs apart, they stared at Caron with those undeniable looks.
“Triplets,” she thought. “I should have had my tubes tied.”
She held the plate out; they each grabbed a brownie and somersaulted away.
Judy Cabito was born in Salem, Oregon, grew up steps from the Puget Sound and currently lives in Incline Village, Nevada. She calls herself a Westcoaster, if there is such a thing. She has been published in several fine online and print publications.
