Brunch. Its a fuzzy concept at best.
The kind of fuzzy that comes from sitting on the grass in the sun, drinking champagne from tea cups because the juice for mimosas ran out hours ago, along with the plastic cups. Talking Nabokov, and Firefly, and Linux and sex and reading atrocious poetry in funny accents accompanied to the sounds clacking of light sabers, and unpracticed somersaults.
Brunch ends naturally when the lassitude of afternoon is pricked into waking by evening’s cool approach, other deadlines — mid-afternoon, the last scrap of food gone, in time to get my Sunday chores done — should be treated with suspicion and discarded.
(update: does photographic evidence undermine the platonic and universal nature of the experience?)