I pull up to the curb in time to see Silvia striding through the terminal’s sliding doors as though greeting a band of photographers.  She pauses to brush a stray blond hair from her forehead, turning slightly to smile at a policeman, the same officer who, fifteen minutes earlier, had pounded on the hood of my Honda, shouted, “Move it, you can’t park here,” and sent me on another lap around LAX.  But with Silvia, he doffs his hat and calls to her, something that makes her laugh, kiss the tips . . .

I pull up to the curb in time to see Silvia striding through the terminal’s sliding doors as though greeting a band of photographers.  She pauses to brush a stray blond hair from her forehead, turning slightly to smile at a policeman, the same officer who, fifteen minutes earlier, had pounded on the hood of my Honda, shouted, “Move it, you can’t park here,” and sent me on another lap around LAX.  But with Silvia, he doffs his hat and calls to her, something that makes her laugh, kiss the tips . . .