There’s an Italian place down around the corner where Sarah and I sometimes go for a sit-down dinner. But they do a bit of takeout and delivery on the side, so I ordered two veal et limone with sides of pasta and arranged to have them delivered at seven.

I put on some Errol Garner (the Lawrence Jones influence), set the table with a cloth and napkins and everything, turned down the lights, lit some candles, and awaited Sarah’s arrival.

Her car pulled into the drive at six-thirty, and I met her at the door with a glass of wine.

Her eyes darted about, caught the candles, the elegantly set table in the dining room off the kitchen.

“Well,” she said, dropping her purse and taking the glass of chilled wine from my hand.

“I love you, Sarah,” I said. “I’m a dipshit, a pain in the neck, a busybody, an asshole of the first order. Ask anybody. I can supply references. I’m sorry for the things I’ve put you through. God knows how I do it. Up until three years ago, I’d barely had a parking ticket, and then, it’s like, I don’t know, I got cursed with catastrophe. And the only thing that’s gotten me through all this has been you. I love you more than anything in the world, Sarah.”

She studied my face, took a sip of her wine. “Is this whole speech just designed to get me into the sack?”

“Not specifically, but if it works out that way, I won’t pretend that I’m sorry.” I set my wine down and took a step toward her, put my hands on the sides of her shoulders. “I want to start over. This is the night where my life, where our life together, takes a new turn. No more troubles. No more craziness. From here on, we’re going to lead the most boring lives in the world. Want an adventure? I’ll take you to Home Depot. That’s as wild as it’s going to get around here from now on.”

Sarah put her wineglass next to mine and slipped her arms around me. “I love you.”

And we just stood there for a couple of minutes, until Sarah whispered, “Let’s go upstairs.”

“But,” I said, “the food’s going to arrive in twenty minutes.”

She moved back, smiled at me. “How much time do you think you’re going to need, really?”

I nodded, took her hand, and turned her in the direction of the stairs. “You’ve got a point,” I said.

She reached up and lightly touched my forehead. “What happened to your eyebrows? There’s, like, half of them missing.”

“I’ll tell you all about it over dinner,” I said, and took her upstairs.

And over veal and pasta, I did. She said very little, stopped me only a couple of times to ask questions.