It's the second last day of winter and the sun is out. I ride the train to her work with a box of doughnuts in my hands, waiting in the shade of her yellow car on the edge of the parking lot. When she arrives, smiling, she picks the red velvet doughnut first. We have one hour and thirty minutes. We drive to the post office to pick up a package; it's her pass for the water park that's opening again, signalling the start of the summer season. She places the parking permit in her car window, proudly smoothing out the sticker's rainbow trim. We have enough time left that we can go inside instead of racing through the drive-thru. In line she stands right behind me, so close that her shoulder presses gently into my back. I lean back and let her take my weight for a few seconds before she playfully pushes me forward. It takes forever to decide what we want to eat. On the highway the sun warms the inside of her yellow car. She drives the whole way with one hand on the steering wheel and the other on my leg. She only lets go of me when she has to make the final turn off and bring us back into the carpark. Despite the way my pale blue t-shirt sticks to my back with sweat, the place where her hand rested now feels freezing cold.
We say goodbye, see you on Friday, outside in front of the bistro's big glass doors. She clutches the doughnut box in her hands as I hold her waist. 'Thank you for coming,' she says.
'Of course.'