The air is so heavy with humidity that you can see it. The Boss calls it "sozzy," which is the word that comes out when she means foggy but can't quite remember the F and the double G.
We were driving through a bucolic stretch of one of Connecticut's more sparsely populated areas on the way to swimming lessons. Green spread to gray underneath the haze. There was the wide swath of farmland to my left, then the treeline behind it, then the sheet of metal sky. It took my breath away and replaced it with wet heat. "This is so beautiful," I said out loud.
"You're so beautiful, too," The Boss piped up from the backseat.
"I'm so beautiful?" I startled slightly, the soft sentiment somehow sharp in my ears.
"Yes, you are so beautiful," she assured me. "You are."
I hadn't expected that. Me, in comparison to a summer's day. Not sweaty, fast and frazzled, but beautiful. My lips were buoyed by a slow grin as I lifted my gaze to the rear view mirror, where The Boss's big blue eyes met mine.
I melted into the compliment from my backseat bard.