His beard is long and he looks like a hipster, my friend who has decided to leave the field of theology for a possible career in law enforcement.
It's Midsummer's Eve and he is in charge of the barbecue. I'm keeping him company in a drafty barn where we are barely sheltered from the cold rain. I move closer to the heat of the grill. I'm not dressed warmly enough in my jeans and tee but the smell of sizzling meat is delicious.
The air in the barn is dusty and grey, a bumble-bee occasionally buzzes around us. We have not talked like this for years, not since our days of playing pool in a dark basement.
Our friends are already gathered around the table. The cottage in the middle of the woods is warmly lit and nobody cares about the cold rain outside. There are hot steaks, corn and haloumi, homemade birch wine and a runny sorbet. There are more strawberries than we can eat. Someone plays a lullaby on the guitar and someone cries and someone gets their clothes ripped off by kids on a sugar rush.
The meal lasts for five hours, with the usual breaks for naps, rescue missions and disappearances.
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