Sprawled on my back on a blanket in the grass, I squinted and guarded my eyes from the unseasonably warm sun. It’s January; every day is unseasonably warm in San Diego. But not every day is quite so warm, or quite so perfect for a picnic at the park with someone I love.
Ben, my boyfriend, and I had just finished a goofy wrestling match, which resulted in a small blanket-burn on his arm, and one half-squashed tangerine rolling around on our blanket. Ben was telling me something when a movement behind his head caught my eye.
“Squirrel!” I exclaimed, much like a talking dog from Pixar’s UP, though I reacted before I could consciously make this connection.
Ben turned and looked.
“Squirrel!” He said, and we laughed, watching the animal begin to climb a palm tree.
As we grew silent, the squirrel froze. For a moment, it held still as a statue on its vertical perch. Suddenly, it looked directly at us and stared.
“Human!” it must have been thinking.
Or maybe “food!” or “college students!” or “public display of affection!”
Ben tossed our squished tangerine toward the tree as a peace offering, but after a taste our squirrel rejected the fruit and returned to its tree. I watched it scavenge in the nooks and crannies for more suitable food until I looked away for a moment. It was gone when I looked back.
Maybe the squirrel ran off to go tell his friends about us. I wonder what it told them? Sure, I’ll probably never see it again, but that’s not true of all the eyes that have stared accusingly at us in our years of Christian college romance.
So, if you’re out there, Mr. Squirrel, I’m sorry for having a serious conversation in your presence. It’s not open dorm tonight.
