You were with your mother, the two of you huddled like thieves, laughing at the silly women who tried to shield themselves from rain by cowering under empty baskets and shawls. The call of youth to youth, and we name it love for want of something better: a glamorous, evanescent thing "like snow upon the desert's dusty face, lighting a little hour or two, was gone. She held out her hand for it, but Gerald smiled. I am your husband, though as yet your hand has scarcely lain in mine. I’ve had a lot on my mind. This was no night for the indulgence of dreamy musing.
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