From the archives: Picnic

For the rest of the summer, we will be highlighting pieces from the carte blanche archives.Here is Picnic by Sarah Gilbert from Issue 11.The city was a marshmallow of sticky smog and I wanted out. I carried bags loaded with beach towels and sandwiches down the front steps while George checked the oil of the old car. I had to step around a couple of languid coffee drinkers who’d spilled out of the café on the corner and made themselves comfortable on our stairs. Everyone was in my way. In the night, I got up to get a drink of water and as I stood naked by the sink, the fridge in the kitchen next-door opened, illuminating our neighbour, François, pudgy in his underwear. I’d ducked away from the window but he’d looked up and waved. That made it hard to pretend I hadn’t seen him, but I tried. I seemed to be the only one around here who needed privacy.“Shree-eeet!” Marcus rode up, tooting the whistle he kept on a cord around his neck. My mood worsened. He wore a stretchy cycling outfit, and when he unclipped his shoes from the pedals, he click-clacked when he walked. “Gonna be a cooker,” he said. “Where you kids off to?”Click here to read the rest of the story.