Yesterday, after a cool evening spent beside a high school soccer field, Tom broke down and lit the first fire of the season. I was frying chicken, cutting ripe tomatoes and corn and cucumbers for a salad, mixing eggs and cheese and scallions for the non-chicken-eating soccer player. We were listening to the Red Sox lose to the Pirates, listening to the soccer player chatter about his team's big win, listening to the kindling crackle in the stove. A splayed paperback copy of Dombey & Son, taped and worn, lay on the table, beside a bottle of beer. Night was drawing in; the lights shone against the reflecting windows. On the radio, Joe Castiglione, Voice of the Boston Red Sox, remarked drily, "You see strange things when the pitcher's hitting." We laughed. "You need to write that down," said Tom. All of us were a little drunk on the sweetness of early autumn.