They were nearly there, near the sunlight-glinted theatre doors. An overhead clock pointed to ten-past starting.
She looked back, down the warm-yellow sidewalk. Slowly but always steadily, he came with his slanted plodding. He’d never had an impeding injury; she teased that he walked in unknown imitation of his own, flat-flooted father.
Sinking sunset rays flared an occasional reflection from his eyeglasses as he turned to look behind: at their parked car across the street, to either side: interesting geological landscape, and forward (finally): to his waiting wife.
She held out a hand; smiling, loving. “Let’s go, Boots.”