It was still there, improbably, under a different name, a little shabbier, a place with a wooden floor and a live band on Saturdays that mostly played for couples our age and older.

We got dressed up.

Hal wore a real jacket, not borrowed this time, and I wore blue because he said once, forty years ago, that I should always wear blue, and we drove over on a Saturday night in August and we walked in and the band was playing something slow.

And my husband of forty years turned to me on the edge of that old floor and held out his hand, the way he had when we were kids, and said, “Ginny Delahunt.

Save me this one?” And I did.