So the husband and I are on what I call a walk and what he calls a "forced death march." We come upon this scene, which is situated on the other side of the busy thoroughfare.
I stop. After a few steps, he realizes that I am no longer beside him (a delayed reaction response from which he suffers in most of his life's permutations). As the traffic whizzes by us, he turns around and looks at me standing there, six feet behind him. His brow collapses and that bewildered lost quizzical expression with which I am so familiar blooms.
"Hey," I say, grinning widely and bobbing my eyebrows up and down in an appetizing, come-hither way. I nod my head, indicating the inviting roadside davenport. "Wanna make out?"