He is bathed in the blue luster of the porch light,
hair tussled, cheeks cross-hatched with lines,
the knot in his throat tight,
balancing a glass of wine in each hand,
and music from inside the house
beguiling the late hour.

Every Thursday evening
she slides from their worn old truck,
yoga bag slung over her left shoulder,
her right hand gripping the door handle.
Raindrops prickle her face,
foretaste of his welcoming kiss.

"I'm home," her voice muffled through the mist.
But he hears.
Always the vaguely anxious anticipation,
then relief.
He is waiting, she is back.
When the heart grows older
there is much to lose.