One summer afternoon I went to the Botanic Gardens to see what was in bloom and to watch the plants grow. They didn’t grow much while I was there so I sat in the Asian garden and jotted down some notes for future stories.
One summer afternoon I remembered the bike ride I took that summer morning to Washington Park going past Ray’s apartment, making a loop around the park past Steven’s house, and then back home.
One summer afternoon I took a writing class on how to put together a memoir that might interest readers. The instructor guided us through exercises on how to construct a narrative with plot, characters and dramatic tension. Just like writing a novel except you’re not supposed to make it up.
One summer afternoon I went to Cheesman Park and saw young men without shirts on running along the trails and playing volleyball. They did not seem to be having as much fun as I was.
One summer afternoon I took the bus into downtown to run some errands and hang out, read the New Yorker and have a really good coffee at Common Grounds on Wazee Street. Downtown is always full of people busy doing their things.
One summer afternoon I took a nap in our cool basement on the sofa that Jamie and I call “the couch of narcosis” because it will put you to sleep, guaranteed.
One summer afternoon I walked into the hospital to see Jamie for the umpteenth time and had a flash of familiarity as if this was just normal life. I told myself to stop that, I don’t want to think that going to the hospital is our normal life.
One summer afternoon Jamie and I stood in front of our house chatting with a neighbor about changes on the block and then some other neighbors who were walking their dog stopped by and filled us all in on some other gossip. We like our neighbors a lot.
One summer afternoon, I discovered that PrideFest is pretty irrelevant to my life. It seems that the crowning achievement of lesbian and gay liberation is skinny hairless young boys walking around in public in their underpants beneath the colorful logos of many huge corporations that want to sell them those underpants and other things.
One summer afternoon I picked fresh arugula from my garden for dinner that night.
One summer afternoon I cut the grass. Don’t mow your lawn in the afternoon; it is too damn hot.
One summer afternoon Jamie and I just fell into bed—and we weren’t sleepy at all.
One summer afternoon I flew into San Francisco International Airport, got on a train into the city, and spent a week of summer afternoons and evenings visiting friends and family, feasting on fabulous meals, going to museums, walking along the ocean, breathing fresh sea air, and eating chocolate cake.
One summer afternoon I went to the shopping mall not to do any shopping but just to wander through a cool environment on a hot day.
On this summer afternoon—and on many summer afternoons and in other seasons as well—I am sitting in a small room to hear what other people do with their summer afternoons.
About
the Author
Nicholas grew up in Cleveland, then grew up in San Francisco, and is now growing up in Denver. He retired from work with non-profits in 2009 and now bicycles, gardens, cooks, does yoga, writes stories, and loves to go out for coffee.
