"Alfred, my favorite kind of day is the kind of day where the grass looks like it was colored by a kindergartner, and the sky looks like the softly dabbled work of a French impressionist, and where the face of the one that I love is like a masterpiece that could transcend all ages. And with you, mon amant, every day is that sort of day." Francis told his boyfriend out of the blue from where he lay, sprawled across his legs on their picnic blanket under the 6 o'clock sky.
"You're my favorite type of day, too, Fran." And he kissed him on the nose.