They drove for about half an hour. The sun was setting the western sky on fire, and the evening was laden with insects and the birds feasting on them. They came to a roadhouse with a small park beside it. In one corner was a playground featuring a rusty slippery dip and a pair of swings, one of which had a broken chain and was therefore useless, even to the most imaginative child.
Ben parked in the gravelled area and they got out of the car. Armand retrieved the cane basket of food and wine, and, following Ben, carried it to a grassed area by a large eucalyptus tree.
He spread out the blanket and Ben sat on it, leaning against the trunk of the tree.
“Damn it,” said Armand, tearing open the foil bag containing the cooked chicken. “I forgot plates.”
Ben shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.”
