We had made a deal, Summer and I. I'd begged her to stay for a while in July and August, but she would only show me a flash of a smile, a ray of warmth and she'd be gone again. To Italy, France. Or Morocco. So I promised I'd give her something to come back for. My turning forty didn't impress her much. She needed more. A token of my appreciation. A sacrifice. So I vowed I'd quit smoking and she whispered she'd make a comeback for a week or so.
We both stuck to our promises. With her, she's brought the delight of ripe figs paired with walnuts. Easy breezy afternoons at the nearby café. A feeling I'm about to burst with happiness. I don't even miss the cigarettes that much. But that's a lie.