Saturday with You

I've started keeping Saturdays the way some people keep a journal— every detail logged, in case one day I need proof that life was, for a time, this unreasonably good. Saturday: the bakery on Seventh where you order in that French you learned from a movie, and the woman behind the counter doesn't correct you because your confidence is its own kind of fluent. Saturday: the park bench where you read out loud to me from whatever you're obsessed with this week— this week it's octopuses, and apparently they have three hearts, and you say this as if it's a personal failing of mine that I've only got one. Saturday: the walk home, your hand in my coat pocket because you forgot your gloves— again—as if forgetting gloves is a philosophy and not just a thing you do. I don't know how to tell you that these ordinary Saturdays are the most beautiful thing I've ever failed to describe. So I keep them here, in the journal I don't write, under the heading: evidence.