It was a sticky hot evening in early August, the kind of weather that just depletes you of any and all energy and allows you to finally understand the meaning of the word wilt.  I parked my car and stayed inside, grateful for the air conditioning and wondering if the short walk I was about to make in the oppressive humidity towards the restaurant would end up making my hair frizz in spite of how long I’d spent straightening it and I decided I might as well just go ahead and embrace the fact that of course my hair would frizz while I looked out the window to see if he’d arrived yet.  He hadn’t, but he wasn’t late; I’m just always early.  I sat in the blessed environment of cool air and scanned the cars and the people emerging; every person was walking slowly, shoulders slumped, the weight of the weather finally – at seven o’clock in the evening – taking its toll.

When I saw him pull into a spot right in front of the restaurant, I turned off my ignition and hopped out of the car and I met him at his front door.

“Hi, Sweetheart,” he said to me with a smile, and I kissed him hello on the cheek.  He looked exhausted – more from battles at work than from the weather – and I took his hand and led him towards the glass door of the restaurant, a door that had grown almost opaque due to the fog.