Strolling back from lunch on Port Road’s broad and grassy median-strip, a black car approached. Familiar shape and model — but surely not. It glided closer. I zoomed in on the numberplate.

In our small city of 1.4 million, few things thrill like stumbling upon you.

Our car. You.

Walking along, in no physical or professional hurry, I’d been wondering about your morning — and somehow, as if conjured, there you were. Like a kid at a parade, I waved wildly.

You pulled over. Right lane. Outraging the fretful and the furious. Horns shouted. Arguing with you, with each other, with their contrary planets. You didn’t care. I love that you don’t care.

I leapt in. We shoved your stuff from the seat — there’s always things — and up and down the Port Road you zipped.

A side street.

You park (no honking this time). A rapid exchange. Mornings, work, lunch, the day ahead. A speedy farewell. A kiss.

I love how secretive forces conspire to let these little joys find me. Small gifts from the day itself. Delightful interruptions from the commonplace.

Resuming our travel: you vehicular; me perambulatory. You go to the hospital at Woodville for an interpreting job. I return to editing the curriculum.

It’d been a gentle ambush.

Taking in the sky’s blue ceiling, I find myself quietly grateful — as though a prayer had arrived before I even knew I’d said one.