Dear Wigleaf,
 
I am writing to you from the perfumed shores of Lake Balboa in Studio City, California. It's the firm's end-of-summer barbeque. I sit with Operations, who are passing around their phones. They are sharing photos of dogs. They talk about the breeds they like, and what they might get. My Arnold Palmer is making the insides of my cheeks hurt. I start to feel my smile as sinister.
 
I tell Operations my dog's name is Winston, but that I always call him Little Boy. That Winston was a replacement for my last dog, Carmen. The two could have been littermates, they look so much alike, I say. But just polar opposites in temperament. Carmen was a little murderess in her muzzle, I laugh, and they exchange glances.
 
The CEO mans the grill, yellowjackets swarming him as if in a cartoon. Finally, he places a plate of tri tip on an empty table and it draws all the yellowjackets. The eyes of Operations follow.
 
Years ago, we would bring the kids here with bikes, a picnic. The family outing. So much trouble to get everyone dressed and out, it almost didn't seem worth it. I remember one hot and crowded Father's Day, another dad telling my husband, it gets better.




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Patricia Quintana Bidar is a Finalist for the 2019 Mythic Picnic Postcard Prize.

Read PQB's story.

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