In a kitschy bar in Manhattan, he asked to sit at her table, though later he would insist that she made the first move. She was mesmerized by his tattoo of a swooping eagle. He thought she went to U.C.L.A. All they had in common was that they’d both almost stayed home. Friends had dragged them out on a frigid February 14th evening. They still never agree on anything, except that it’s a darn good thing they sucked it up that cold, rainy night. Their wild green-eyed son always stops them dead in their tracks, reminding them that fate is just as fragile as their memories.
