Perfect

It is only a few towns away, but the Germantown fireworks carnival has flyover state vibes, helped by the cowboy hats and country band playing covers in a pavilion, ten decibels over necessity such that Amber and I slip in our earplugs (we always have ear plugs). July haze hangs over the park, the sunlight roiling the humidity until it oppresses. When I arrived, I considered the cowboy hats morally neutral, a harmless eccentricity of people who identify with the subculture more than having anything to do with agriculture. Into the tenth minute of the sun on the back of my neck, I see the utility of a properly brimmed hat, though I still look askance at the clean black woolen ones on some heads. I sweat more even being near them.

Amber eats lobster bisque from a food truck. I had the misfortune of overestimating the selection, so I ended up with chicken fingers and fries; the only flavor difference between them was the condiments into which I dipped them. This is not entirely a complaint. Days like this are built for fried food, though it would be completed with a gallon of unhealthy soda instead of my decaf ice black tea with Stevia. I am not built for this sort of celebration.

I angle myself so my head blocks the sun from Amber's face. I doubt they noticed, except I am haloed and uncomfortable to look at directly. Also, my neck burns, but these are the sacrifices we make to protect our loved ones from the harm of which they are ignorant.

They say they would like my help with my audio equipment so they could record something as an anniversary present. They ask if I know what it is. I think a moment and say it must be some waveform decor. They are disappointed that I figured it out immediately and ask if I even want it. I assure them I very much do, which is why I guessed.

They could have figured out my program within a few minutes. It will now include my voice saying our goodbye whenever the other leaves: be awesome, be safe, be loved, be beautiful. The latter two words are already carved into the holder for my shaving gear--most of which were gifts from Amber. I thought about gifts and places that would complete the set--maybe "be safe" on a plaque above our front door, though I never found places or items for the other two. The waveform does accomplish them all in one swoop.

After we have eaten, we retreat to the field beside a pond where some fifty people have massed in the grass.

It is ten degrees cooler in the shade. We watch children race each other, their father lying that they always had the same speed so he doesn't have to time them until one falls face first into the ground and wails as though his soul might take leave of him. The family leaves to tend to the afflicted, and no one occupies their space.

I admire that other people had the sense to bring picnic dinners, which Amber pronounces is the only sensible thing to do. It would allow them extra drinks and spare them from over-fried chicken fingers.

The sun sets the miles of cumulus aflame. The fireworks will be superfluous--though I've paid for parking and would not dare leave now.

Amber lies on my legs and chest, kissing me intermittently. They are still the prettiest person I know. Almost a decade later, with their slightly too-large sunglasses that make them glamorous. If any country cuties were vying for attention--not mine, of course, but someone's--I could not begin to notice with Amber cuddling me.

I wonder sometimes, as now with my rural compatriots in Germantown, what I would have been if some accident of birth had dropped me other than upstate New York. How much of me is innate, and what is owing to my surroundings? Aside from a propensity for writing, which I must imagine is inherent, I have some tendencies and a physicality that would have been hellish in a town where the only culture or esteem is found in high school football. Even the drama club might be beyond me. I can convince myself I am another person with the best of them, but none of those people can sing. It is only of late that I have confidence that I will not be an embarrassment on the dance floor.

I would want to return to this moment with Amber as the last of the sun dips purple behind the mountains, taking another five degrees, and a scattering of rain ripples off the pond. I would not want some corn-fed former drama princess. My essence would call out for my brilliant, queer goblin giving me the twentieth peck since we stopped here, knowing me better and more completely than anyone has, and accepting things about me I did not imagine another person could.

A firework explodes in the sky, a sort of come on, guys, I'm really serious this time. I might start. A fireball erupts across the pond, unintentional and worrying, which is an excellent reason to start.

I keep seeing a post that finishes with some variation of if you could enter a grocery store with eyes unclouded with schemas and habit, you would die of wonder. I tried to look at the fireworks this way--coupling it with my partner on my chest, the cooling but not cool night, the slight fizz on the back of my neck lingering from the sun damage, my iced Earl Gray tea with monk fruit (which I had swapped out from the car)--all at once and make it effortless. That's the trick of it, the lack of effort, the trying not to try of it. If it is a strain, you lose the holiness of the moment. You weren't there anymore; you were turning it all into phrases for later, so you won't remember being beside this pond this night, only having been.

I relax and tell my mind to give me a few minutes of unspeakable wonder before I again contemplate doing my taxes and how to embroider a novel.

The grand finale ends with setting alight an American flag firework on the ground. This seems to be a politically dicey thing to do on the sixth of July. A well-sauced man slurs the opening bars to "The Star-Spangled Banner." He does it half as a joke but with the expectation that we will join him in the next stanza. The crowd ignores him. He takes a drink, pauses for 30 seconds, then slurs the rest, his phone before his face, where he reads the lyrics.

Amber and I get to my car and are stuck in predictable traffic. I tell them of when I was in fifth grade, and my parents took us to a Gallagher show in the conference room of a hotel. I don't remember much of the show--how could I?--but I cherished the signed mallet for years. What I remember, though, is going out to the diner after and having fries and a vanilla milkshake. It felt so cool that this was my life, that I could go to a comedy show and then hang out eating food well into the night (probably nine or ten).

"We could go to the diner now," Amber says. But we can't, not really. My calorie tracker intimates that I may have had too much today, no matter my 20,000 steps. I'll like myself better tomorrow if I sleep tonight. I am not the boy for whom these thousand calories would be a delight. Also, the only diner open right now would be on the other side of the river, which is a hassle.

"Sugar High" by Coyote Shivers comes on shuffle. I only know it from Empire Records, which I pronounced a stupid movie I would watch no matter when it was on.

"I want to live a day like that," I say, "even though I am aware several days in the script were edited into one that makes no chronological sense."

Perfect days are easier when impossible, though they may be impossible on first principle, no matter the company, pond, fireworks, and milkshakes.

last watched: Adventure Time
reading: I Am Charlotte Simmons