She was buried deep in sleep, submerged in the warmth, on the outskirts of dreams, when she felt him shift and quietly slip out of bed. That was Jim, her sweet, always (almost) considerate husband who always rose from bed before her. Showering in the downstairs bathroom so as not to wake her. She sighed, turned over and began the slow and faltering ascent to wakefullness. NPR came on the radio playing the low familiar voice of Steven Inskeep detailing the relief efforts after Hurricane Helene in

Asherville. And then the smell of coffee and aftershave whispered into the room. Jim set the coffee on the nightstand and bent to kiss her forhead.

“Good morning, Sunshine!”

She looked up and smiled at him. “Good morning, Love.” Her smile widened as she sat up in bed and reached for the coffee—felt the warmth of the cup in her two hands, took in the aroma, an finallyh took the tinyest sip, savoring both the taste and the temperature.

“What’s your day look like?” She asked her eyes slitted open.

He sat on the edge of bed and in his deepest quietiest voice told her about his plans for the day.

When she heard the front door click and car start up in the driveway, she slipped into her robe and entered her morning peaceful and grounded.

They’d been invited to a dinner party hosted by a new work colleague of Jim’s, Bennett and his wife Emily. They lived across town in a newly purchased two-story mock-Victorian in a gated community. In the mid-November darkness, under the pho-antique amber street lights, every single home and garden looked cut from a magazine—tidy and perfect—more holographic than real.

Bennett and Emily’s driveway flagstone pavers and circular—a bit pretentious she thought but didn’t articulate. She was irratated with herself for the negative comparison to their own home and garden. She took a deep breath and silently repeated, I _am enough _until she felt grounded and at ease.

Dinner was simple: a yummy homemade lasagna, a tossed Italian vegetable salad and loads of fresh baked bread, olive oil, and parmasan cheese.

Jim told about how hard his company had worked to recruit Bennett and how lucky they were to get him. Bennett, he told the table, was a brilliant negotiator—and had landed an unprecedented contract—the highest the company at ever offered. Bennett appeared to blush.

“Oh yes, I know full well what a champion negotiator my Bennett is, “ Emily said, reahing across the table and taking Bennett’s hand. “It’s the major reason I even dated him, let alone married him?”

Bennett fidgeted in his seat bashful, then kissed her hand and released it.

“Of the two of us,” Bennett said softly, “Emily is by far the better negotiator. I’ve argued to this day, that it had all been part of her master plan.”

“Are you saying, that you were and are the ultimate prize?” Emily teased, her eyes teased.

“Not at all. I couldn’t have known at first meeting, but I quickly came to realize—you are always the ultimate prize and I’m the lucky bloke who married up.”

After dinner they all retired to the living room —where Emily and Bennett shared how they met at a frat party in college and how Emily wanted none of him. Bennett, unplussed, pursued, cajoled and bargained for every date and phone call. By the time they finished their story they were all deep into their second bottle of Chianti and howling with laughter.

“How about you guys?” Emily asked. “How did you meet? Was it love or something else at first sight?”

“You tell them, Hon,” JIm said shifting a bit on the sofa in order to make eye contact with her. “It’s not nearly as entertaining as your story—so be warned.’’

They were all looking at her—waiting. JIm gave her hand a squeeze of encouragement. “You’re a much better story teller that me. I’m the facts guy.’

All that was true. But here’s the thing she couldn’t remember. It was the wine of course. The wine and the social pressure. They were all looking t her. But try as she did, she just could fish the memory out of the quamire of her mind. At the moment it felt as though all of her memories had Jim in them. In the jumble soup of her mind there was no beginning —no before and after.

“Oh my gosh,” she said, “ I think I’ve had too much wine—it’s completely out of my mind at the moment. You tell them Jim—give them the facts-only version and I’ll jump in.”

“It was the first Tuesday in March 2018. I was leaving the Starbucks on Madison and Main. You came storming through the door just as I was leaving and knocked a Venti Americano all down the front of my white shirt and silk tie. You peeled off your pink cashmere scarf, all the while apologizing over and over again and blotting at my shirt and tie. You just kept rambling apologizing—until it became ridiculous and were both started laughing. I knew it then. She was something special.”

They all laughed and she laughed a little to. But the thing was she had never owned a pink cashmere scarf and to the best of her recollection had never been to the Starbucks on Maxwell and Main. It was all so disturbing.

In the car on the way home she said. “What’s the story about the Starbucks and a pink cashmere scarf?”

“Well,” he said, his eyes fixed on the wet road ahead. “We couldn’t tell them the truth, could we?”

They had stopped for a red light and he turned and held her firmly in his gaze, so tightly that she could not squirm away.

“But I don’t remember?” she whispered.

“You weren’t meant to,” he said and reached over and squeezed her hand for reassurance.