He arrived an hour early at The Palm, certain to get a table. The snowstorm had started a few hours ago and he didn’t want to take any chances. They had spoken about many things already, literature, children, technology, pandemics, isolation, their masters programs at American University, his an MBA, hers MFA. They spoke about a strange film about a lamb and human hybrid baby that she insisted he watch. A test, though she would not confess it. She had called it magic realism and it is something like that, now, somewhere between the magical and the real, impossibilities. She said once that she had given up on impossibilities. They had that in common. An hour later, she sends a text: “Car isn’t starting. So sorry I’m late. Getting an Uber.” She doesn’t know he has been sitting in the booth for an hour already. The place is barren mostly except for the servers, a lone guy at the bar on his third drink and the painted faces of celebrities and politicians covering the walls and gazing down on him, now, like a Greek chorus. She’s not coming, they say. He might tell them to shut up but the servers are already staring at him. After another hour and a second glass of water, she finally turns the corner into the bar. Two hours he has been sitting there. He stands and offers his hand as if he only just arrived. She smiles. “I’m so sorry.” She speaks about the snowstorm and not having driven the car for a few days. “The engine wouldn’t start.” “I wasn’t sure you would make it.” “I’ve been looking forward to this. I’m so glad to be here.” He orders a Brunello because it is her favorite red and the wine turns into stories and laughter then an overgrown lobster, sliced like an autopsy. They chew on crustacean and charms and sometimes impolite histories that make them laugh. Indelible affections. “Can I see you again?” He says. “Yes.” No hesitation. She has been waiting for him to ask. “When?” He insists on driving her home and she swears she didn’t intend it to happen, this test of patience and chivalry. She is a feminist after all. Secretly, she agrees it is a lovely coincidence. The snow is slick on the road as they drive outside Tysons and into Bethesda. A thick blanket covers the lawn in front of her cottage. He insists on opening her door and he offers his hand, waits for her to step out. She pauses and smiles and almost kisses him on the cheek. It is surprising, this moment. Genuine. And she thinks of the lamb and its impossible human body and its little lamb face, its little lamb leg instead of an arm and a hand. She turns before slipping inside and finds him watching, waiting for her to disappear safely behind the door. And there it is. A perfect, singular moment on a snowy night.