It’s Sunday night, the kitchen is quiet, she is making dinner for two. But she is alone, quietly alone. He’s away, off someplace, in another universe. He isn’t there. But she’s there, pretending he’s there, he whom she’s never met. Maybe she invented him, maybe she made him up. But no. He is there, he is in the kitchen, he is watching her cooking the dinner for two, his dear widow fixing her husband’s still favorite stew. It’s quiet there in the kitchen without him. She misses him, especially on Sundays she said one time, in another universe. Now he see’s what she meant, its lonely there without him. And it’s so cold here without her. He’s on the verge of tears. In another universe he is alone, crying, thinking of her, she whom he’s never met, dreaming about her, the girl of his dreams. He misses her on Sundays, those days he’s never liked, so close to Monday, always reminding him that he is alone. But he prayed for her one day, one Sunday night in October, and that’s why she is here, right now in this kitchen…He steps in, out of the cold and places his hand on her waist and hugs his dear baby girl. He holds her tightly and kisses her on her cheek, tells her he loves her, that his universe is she.