“I mean this as a compliment,” I said, settling into my seat at Flour, the South End bakery a short walk from the brownstone where Nicole and I used to live with one awesome cat and one pitiful excuse for a human being. I now live across the river; she now lives halfway across the country. “If I were with anyone else and all this had happened today, it would be an epic fail. But given that it’s you, it’s fantastic.”

Five minutes into our afternoon together, I’d taken a tumble on ice and sustained the jams to both of my wrists and arms that made it difficult to lift my bag, take off my jacket, open the car door and just about anything else I wanted to do. She’d sustained her own injury, with blood appearing on her leg. We were both exhausted, had nearly gotten lost traveling in the city, couldn’t find a quarter for the meter to save our lives and had hit our heads against car windows and walls.

We were walking distasters – which means that we’d bascially taken all of the misadventures and injuries we’ve always encountered together and condensed them into one glorious, fabulous screw-up of an afternoon.

I had one of my favorite people sitting across the table. I was enjoying banana bread, she had a cupcake. Despite the fact that I couldn’t lift my latte without wincing, things felt just right.