Here’s a thing that happened once.
I was walking down Union Square West in New York City with my husband. It must have been June, because it was the kind of warm weather where you could meander around reveling at the heat on your shoulders without being accosted by the humid garbage funk of Late Summer in the City. We had just done something normal-weekend fun — a movie? A book shopping spree? An afternoon in the park? — and were on our way to dinner, standing at a light and waiting to cross 14th.