That day, two years and about eight months ago, we shared a bicycle. Hoi An’s busy town was distant now. We stopped at a sleepy cafe that had no guests until we sat down. I remember wishing for the ice to be colder, and the day to be longer. We really had nowhere to be. After pedaling a few more kilometers, unsatisfied with a long stretch of touristy beaches, we found an empty shore. We were lucky. This spot, for the remainder of that afternoon, remained quiet. We stood alone, between the endless waves and the highway. The tide was getting higher now, and she was watching it dance back and forth at her feet.

We headed back into town some time later. She, who was more alluring each day, and I, who had held my tongue for weeks, had little space left to hide from each other. I started to sing, as if all the words had been lined up before my tongue, waiting for release.

We’re just ordinary people..we don’t know which way to go. ’Cause we’re ordinary people, maybe we should take it slow.

Since then, even as our memory moves on and loses some details, we’ve thought of that moment as the turning point. Not much longer after the discovery of that empty beach (and claiming it as somewhere only we know), the bike ride, and the song, we kissed for the first time.

Tonight, we sat less than a hundred feet from the man whose music captured that moment so perfectly. He sang Ordinary People, and that day, from two years and about eight months ago, became clear again.