And then I saw the tablecloth.

Part Forty-Six: The Gingham Tablecloth

The checked tablecloth.

The paper plates.

It was the barbecue at Kevin’s cousin’s place, for her birthday, the summer before.

Brian had put his arm round me while everyone was singing.

It was the last weekend in July.

The tablecloth was red and white gingham, in a plastic-backed oilcloth, and it was on a trestle table against the fence, and I remember it because I had spilled something on it and had been unable to find anything that would absorb.