Perfection

The symphony is in top form tonight, and the weather in the park is cooperating wonderfully. The lawn spreading out in front of the stage, all the way up to the dark banks of trees surrounding us like a bowl, is full of people sprawled on picnic blankets, towels, and tarps, eating and drinking, chatting over the music, texting one another, checking their Facebook pages, or staring off into space.

Jets fly above, their lights blinking counterpoint to the music, and a child points up at one winging its way into LaGuardia.

"We're spoiled for perfection," I say to Katie, as I sip wine from a blue Solo cup and let the music wash over me.