Rhonda and Nick are having a picnic in Podilskyy Park. It is late summer and the leaves on the birch, black alder and hornbeam oaks are beginning to turn. The grass between them is soft and sweet. The air carries a faint scent of vanilla.
Their new Ukrainian friends, Danyo and Vktoriya, stagger under a load of rugs, picnic baskets, bottles; they flop down and Danyo stretches out his arms as if he is blessing the landscape like a priest. He pats the rug and invites Rhonda to sit beside him. Nick opens the first bottle of while Vktoriya unpacks the picnic: , chicken Kyiv, potato salad, poppyseed rolls, broken glass cake. “,” they say, touching glasses.
