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Remember when egg salad sandwiches were served on white, crustless toasted bread with dainty white paper serviettes, and when she asked you if you wanted another serving of ambrosia salad, you said, “Oh, yes please!,” and it was just a late summer day and your skin was tan and you were lost somewhere in Northern Virginia, and she sat across from you at the small round bistro table in the shade from the late-afternoon sun and you couldn’t see her eyes for her dark sunglasses, and she smiled and the hem of her sheer cotton sundress moved dangerously up her thigh as she gesticulated and laughed, and her espadrilles snaked around her ankles and long smooth calf, and you knew this wasn’t forever, but it was good enough, and how, as you took a generous bite of that sandwich on the crustless toasted bread, you wondered when the rains would finally begin, and if the cooling moisture would cleanse your soul?