Apéro

"The stone was still warm from the unusually hot September sun that day. I felt it through the checkered picnic blanket and through my white summer dress. We had brought rosé, glasses, and nibbles to eat. The heated stone warmed up my thighs pressing against the ground underneath me. Our summer picnics were something that happened as soon as the air was warm enough, and lasted every week until the first fall leaves hit the ground. We were a well oiled picnic machine at this point after having spent years along the Seine with countless bottles of rosé, and cheese from the fromagerie below my apartment." - Carin Olsson