“The champagne is our gift.” Gus and I glanced at each other, smiling.
Once we’d crossed the street, he pulled out a seat for me and helped me scoot it back in.
There were indeed two flutes of champagne at our white-tableclothed table.
The slight chill in the air was balanced magnificently by the sunshine; on one side of us, cyclists pedaled past
well-dressed men and women on their way home from work, improbably attractive blond girls riding sidesaddle on the back of a friend’s bike,
tiny helmetless kids bouncing around in plastic seats behind their parents.
And on our other side, the canal water was choked with millions of the confetti seeds.
Little boats were moored at the brick banks, half full of rainwater, some of them near sinking.
A bit farther down the canal, I could see houseboats floating on pontoons,
and in the middle of the canal, an open-air, flat-bottomed boat decked out with lawn chairs and a portable stereo idled toward us.
Augustus took his flute of champagne and raised it. I took mine, even though I’d never had a drink aside from sips of my dad’s beer.
“Okay,” he said. “Okay,” I said, and we clinked glasses. I took a sip.
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