Dedicated to my husband. Happy anniversary. If I hadn’t met you when I did, I would have met you anywhere else. Maybe this would’ve been us, if we hadn’t been an us already. Except in my case, I’ve always known I was meant to be yours.

There is a lot that goes into a plate of spaghetti. Many don’t know it, and James was one of these people.

First off, there is the herbs. Oregano. Basil. Thyme. All are fresh if it is a good sauce. And if it is an especially good plate of spaghetti, the tomatoes are fresh too. The Italian restaurant that sits between a coffee house and the burger joint in the lost part of old town always served an exceptional plate of spaghetti with the noodles all curled up inside themselves like ribbons of yarn. There, each bundle is faded pink since the sauce is tossed and distributed appropriately before being twirled into presentation, unlike some other disreputable plates of spaghetti where the noodles are dropped onto the slippery plate and covered over with a ladle full of canned red soup.

James was supposed to have been at the place next door, the quick in-and-out grill that offered a wet burger and spongy curly fries that were handed over to you in a styrofoam box and tissue paper for the unreasonable cost of what you might pay for a full dining experience. It wasn’t James’ first choice, but he never argued when it came to a business contact. And this guy had been particularly good to him with well paying work over the past few years.

So it was that when the meeting was cancelled right when James was pulling up in the parking lot, and since he was hungry, he decided to spend the money at the Italian joint instead. And when the waitress came by to take his order, James had no desire to spend time mulling over the menu so he quickly ordered a classic plate of the first thing that usually comes to mind when ordering Italian, less the meatballs. The steamy concoction was placed in front of him a reasonable amount of time later.

“Will there be anything else?” the waitress asked James. While she was noteworthy, natural golden blonde and his age, and while she had mentioned that her name was Dana when she came to introduce herself as his server, he still couldn’t remember it.

“No, I’m good. Thanks,” James answered to his cutlery.

Certain times you are not expecting something to give you peace, to take you away. And it is important to say that the house specialty did not disappoint in appearance or taste that night, but nevertheless it wasn’t the presented pasta that captured James’ mind.

A woman, young and loud with reddish blonde hair and a gray jacket that wouldn’t keep a cat warm had come into the restaurant at the precise timing of James’ diner to his table. She was crying; which is the equivalent, attention wise, of a girl scout; she can sign everyone up, but then loses their business after the first minute. Since this restaurant was small, a rectangle with the tables and chairs minimizing it into a straight line, each guest was a short term subscriber to the crying woman.

Each guest except James.

The reason that this woman was crying was innocuous to him, but James found himself thinking highly of her, as if it were endearing that she should be so upset. Her thoughts were no where near cogent, but James noticed he was thinking his waitress – what was her name? – flippant and dismissive to the young lady against her tearful explanations. Yet perhaps the most surprising thing of all, was that James had risen from his solitary seat against the wall and was advancing to the stranger without even haven taken one spiraled fork full of his dinner.

“Excuse me?” James asked the woman, dismissing the waitress. “Are you in some trouble.”

James would never admit it, but he was a good man. Most people might ignore a phone call from their mothers, cut out early, place store items randomly on shelves instead of back where they belong, causing the employees extra work. James helped others without them asking, he stayed late to make sure a project was exemplary, he showed up for his family members even when he was busy or tired, and he never turned away from a good deed. It was natural for him, a fiber that stuck to his clothing or wrinkled his skin.

“Sorry,” she sobbed, running a finer under her nose. “I just have had an awful day. My computer revolted against me and I had a paper due, so I tried to get the library’s help but this one woman must have had it out for me, my mother and my dog because she was so condescending that I couldn’t even get a straight answer and…”

While the woman had not yet answered James’s question, nor did she indicate that she would anytime soon, James found her adorable. He realized he wasn’t even actively listening to her. She was sniveling and leaking in places that were not only her eyes, but mostly, James could tell she was just being honest to the first honest listener.

“Sorry,” she said again, realizing that the kind gentleman was not really paying attention anymore. “I cry a lot.”

James laughed, she started to smile too. Dana rolled her eyes.

“Anyway, after my phone died, my car decided to die too and I am just ridiculous enough to know that I should have a pair of jumper cables in my car but I never actually take the step to do it.”

“Well I’m just finishing up,” James lied. He thought it was funny to think of a car deciding to do something like live or die. “I’ll settle up and be right back.”

“Oh thank you so much. I was hoping to just use an outlet for my charger,” the woman sniffed. She lifted up her phone which was attached to a black wire with a noted look at the waitress, who had been witnessing this exchange with some distaste. “But that would be so much more helpful.”

“I’m James.”

“Sunny.” James hadn’t asked the question he was thinking out loud but Sunny was used to seeing it in peoples faces so she answered it politely for him anyway. “It’s short for Sunshine and yes it really is my name. I like it.”

“I like it too.”

Being a man of some skill and expertise, and most importantly, a man with a pair of jumper cables, James had the beat up two door Mitsubishi revved up in no time but they stood talking together against the side of the car anyway. He advised her to keep it running for a few minutes before she turned off the engine when she got wherever it was she was going. Sunny asked him a random mechanical question, one she wasn’t even sure she understood herself, she just really wanted to keep talking to James. He had eyes the color of the sun on water, noteworthy blue but bright enough you wondered if you were really seeing it. Sunny found herself having a hard time paying attention to James when he answered her question. The look of his boots was distracting and the glow of the hairs on his forearms.

When the immobile engine of the Mitsubishi started interrupting their conversation with impatient, “ah-hem’s”, Sunny shifted her body off the side of the car.

“Thanks again.”

“Drive safe,” James said.

Each noticed an alarming reluctance to get home, though the parking lot was becoming sparse and the highways were becoming slick. Both recalled sentences uttered and foils made, each recollected fidgeting gestures like hair touching or fingernail scratching. Neither was entirely aware at the time of why that was so.

The incomparable spaghetti went uneaten that night. But each year since, when they return, it never fails to impress James and his once upon a time tearful stranger.