The Novelist had a very detailed, very specific Perfect Day that required more luck than money. He loved the beach, especially ones with those old-fashioned boardwalks. His Perfect Day would be at one of those boardwalks on the East Coast. It would be summer, hot but not unbearably so. We’d get a hot dog and a frozen lemonade, then, by some wonderful chance, the moment we wanted to get out of the sun, we’d walk by a bookshop. We’d duck in to find that they were about to host one of the Novelist’s favorite writers. One of the literary Jonathans, like Safran Foer or Franzen. It would be a small, intimate event that hadn’t been advertised at all. In fact, we’d be the only ones there. And the literary Jonathan would look out into his audience of two and say, “What the hell, let’s just go grab dinner together.” And we would. A fancy seafood restaurant where we’d eat lobster in those plastic bibs. The Novelist would get a funny picture of the two of them. They’d talk about books and the literary Jonathan would say something like “that idea sounds incredible. Here’s my personal email—send it to me when you’re done. We’ll get it published.”

My Perfect Day was different in almost every way, except it also involved walking around and finding a bookstore. Fitting, I suppose, since that’s where the Novelist and I met.