Instead of eating out today, Gayson and I decide on a whim to cook up clams in garlic-butter sauce.

We’re already in line at The Lobster Place before I realize I haven’t been back here in three years.

It’s a spot I actively avoided in Year One and rushed past in Year Two: a rough reminder of my former life as a wife buying fresh fish for two.

But Year Three finds me here, with my best gay, unwittingly buying ingredients for a dish I’ve never made before.

Amid the memories and low-tide smell, The Lobster Place feels half-alright.

The moment feels like a spontaneous-meal-turned-milestone.

An hour later, the milestone is sautéed, plated and hailed as our new favorite summer meal. Instead of a mad dash to clear or wash dishes, Gayson and I linger at the table, soaking up each other’s stories like bits of bread absorbing a rich sauce.

When we eventually part with hugs, I hop on my bike for what becomes a three-hour ride through six neighborhoods. By the time I lock up in the bicycle room, I’ve burned off a belly full of clam bellies.

Today may not have been, by Alberto’s definition, the kind that people write songs about.

But it does feel like the kind for which he would spontaneously high-five me.