3:30. Fuck.

She hated Wednesdays. Every Friday evening she would settle into the couch, Ella and Mia tucked snuggly between her and Jim, and brace herself for the inevitable onslaught of bright colors, high voices, and general incomprehensibility that always accompanied watching Disney Channel. Her girls would be genuinely absorbed and would grab her knees every time a commercial for something they wanted would come on, Jim would tickle their insistence for another Barbie away, and she would tell herself, "This weekend I swear I'll do everything I need to do so that I won't lose my mind during the week."

Indeed, she'd promised herself that very thing last Friday. But Saturday had come along with a bright sun and a mild autumn breeze that just begged to be taken advantage of, and so they'd spent the entire day chasing squirrels in the park and searching for the crunchiest leaves to step on. "Tomorrow," she'd assured herself, but what's a Saturday of climbing trees and scraping knees without a lazy Sunday of chocolate-chip pancakes and catching fireflies?

So now she was elbowing her way through the crush of fellow pedestrians, using her two massive paper bags of groceries to hide her face so she wouldn't have to see their accusing glares. Her arms were burning, her shirt was untucked, and she din't even want to think about her hair.

No matter.

The chant "Please, please, please," was bouncing back and forth through her mind to the rhythm of her quick footsteps. "Please let us be on time. Please let the girls be ready. Please, God, tell me Jim got them ready." She rushed up to her building, ignored the elevator, and took the stairs, huffing her way up step by step.

She felt a sinking feeling when she finally got to her door: the noises on the other side were not at all encouraging. Sure enough, when she walked in Mia and Ella were not sitting tidily at the kitchen table, dressed in their tutus and ready for their ballet class. No. Instead, Mia was sitting crossed legged on the floor, in front of the blaring television, half dressed, her hair half combed, dutifully pulling the head off a Barbie doll. Ballet equipment lay scattered across the floor; hair products were strewn about the apartment, drawers were pulled open haphazardly.

But where was Jim, her ever cheerful husband? He was in the girls' room, tugging at a pair of stockings, which seemed to be suctioned onto Ella's legs, which were dangling in the air because the girl was upside down on her hands, giggling hysterically despite the fact that her face was wholly obscured by her overturned tutu.

"What is going on?!!"

Jim spun around, obviously startled. The look on his face was such an odd mixture of surprise, frustration, general bewilderedness, and his usual sunniness that at any other moment she would have burst out laughing. But this was not funny. She was harried and tired, the girls had to be at their lesson by 4:15, Jim had to leave to get to his board meeting on time, and someone had to put the stupid milk in the fridge.

To all this Jim seemed to be oblivious. His face broke out in a grin, the corners of his green eyes crinkling mischievously, and he walked toward her, the stocking stretching almost ludicrously from Ella's legs to where he stood and hugged her with one arm. "Hey, babe," he kissed her on the forehead.

She was speechless for about two seconds. Then she took a deep breath, pushed him away, ignored the frown he gave her, placed her hands on her hips, reminded herself not to curse, and pronounced "I don't know what is going on here, but it's stopping right now."

She pointed to Mia. "You, dressed, immediately."

She nodded at Jim. "You, let go of those tights and put our daughter," she stressed the two words sternly, "upright before she breaks her neck."

She was like a drill sergeant. Everyone did exactly as she told them to. She flipped the television off, ordered Jim to fix a snack for the girls, maneuvered Mia's hair into something resembling a ponytail, told Jim where his keys were, made sure everyone had their jackets on, and just like that, they were prepared.

She was at the door holding the girls' hands, about to leave, when Jim stopped her.

"Wait," she heard him say. She could barley contain her impatience. "What?"

She turned around to find that he was smiling at her again. It was that impish, flirty smile of his that had first gotten her attention. He was so unlike her, so lighthearted and carefree, always ready to laugh at the circumstances of life and not glower at them, determined to master them, as she was.

He walked towards her and without warning, kissed her. It was like a revelation: completely divine and marvelously illuminating; like listening to a favorite song she hadn't heard in along time: at once strange and familiar; like the first hard, hot drink of an early night: seductive and gratifying. His tongue was teasing and inquisitive, his lips commanding yet supple. This was why she loved him, why she'd said yes to his proposal, why she simply looked forward to coming home to him every night, and felt blessed when she woke up next to him in the morning. It was because with just one kiss he was able to make her feel like the most exquisite being on earth, was able to make her forget about 4:15 and his meeting, and make her realize that Mia had lost another tooth that day and Ella had finally learned to tie her own shoelaces. She wanted to lean in closer to him, let him just hold her in his arms, but the girls were between them.

Ella tugged on her arm while Mia pushed him away and said sharply, "Daddy, stop it! You can kiss Mommy later. We have to get to class."

Jim pulled away, and this time, when he smiled, she smiled back. "Thank you," he said. She wiggled her eyebrows at him flirtatiously and whispered, "You can thank me later," then took the girls' hands and headed for the stairs.