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"The Charles River Shuffle" presents a deceptively lighthearted narrative about a misplaced evening plan, but beneath its conversational veneer, the story explores themes of communication, relational intimacy, and the tension between personal pursuits and shared commitments.

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The Charles River Shuffle

(Or How My Passport and a Burger Saved Date Night)

By Harry Arabian

Workday was nearly over when Mr. Sumner, our principal sales clown—pardon, principal salesperson—strolled by my desk with his usual crooked grin and a stack of mail.

“Special delivery,” he declared, dropping an envelope on my keyboard. “Our receptionist thought walking ten feet was too much exercise, so here I am.”

I recognized the envelope right away—passport-sized, government-sealed, and suspiciously water-wrinkled. I tore it open and exhaled relief: my new passport was safe and dry inside, even if the envelope had apparently wrestled a thunderstorm.

“Neither snow nor rain,” I muttered with a smirk, nodding to the Post Office’s eternal bravado.

Five minutes later, I had packed up and clocked out. Time for the annual platoon family barbecue on the Charles River—a weekend of fishing, grilling, and dodging sunburns before I had to jet off to Chile for work in two weeks.

When I got home, Marie greeted me with a kiss and a distinct lack of enthusiasm. I could tell instantly: she hadn’t packed a thing for the river. My wife, ever the self-proclaimed “city girl,” considered fishing less a sport and more a mosquito-infested waiting game. She never bought into my rod-and-reel devotion.

I didn’t push. I just headed to the kitchen to pack the cooler: burgers, hot dogs, buns, cheese slices, a couple of sodas, and yes—my prized craft beer.

“Don’t forget your artisanal swamp water,” Marie called out from the living room. “Bottom shelf.”

“Appreciate the help,” I called back, keeping my tone light, though her sarcasm landed a little heavier than usual.

With the cooler and tackle loaded into our dream truck, I stood in the driveway waiting for Marie—half expecting a goodbye wave. Instead, she stepped outside dressed not for the docks, but for date night. Sundress, heels, even a touch of perfume.

“You do know it’s gonna be muggy on the Charles, right?” I said.

She smiled—not sarcastically, but in a measured, direct way. “Mr. Sumner called. Said you’re headed to Chile in ten days. That’s news to me. So, I made dinner reservations—Monteverdi. Romantic. Seven o’clock.”

I blinked, heartbeat thudding a little harder. “You talked to Sumner?”

“Mm-hmm,” she said, slipping into the passenger seat. “Apparently, he has a calendar. Now, let’s go drop off the cooler.”

At the East Cambridge Charles Gate Yacht Club, I hurried through the greetings, waving at the dozen friends who had already gathered. The summer air hung warm and sticky with the scents of charcoal and sunscreen. I offloaded the tackle and set the cooler near the grill, tossing out vague excuses about work calls and loose ends. I didn’t expect anyone to buy them.

All the way at the grill, apron-clad and holding a spatula like a maestro with a baton, stood Mr. Sumner himself, cheerfully flipping burgers.

“I like Italian food,” he said with a wink as I approached.

That’s when I knew—he was the one who planted the Monteverdi idea in Marie’s mind.

I looked at him, then at my wife, then at the crowd of friends gathering near the water. Guilt nudged me. I’d been so wrapped up in logistics and gear I’d barely mentioned Chile. She hadn’t packed because she didn’t feel included—simple as that.

Perhaps I would only get an hour on the boat; perhaps I would spend the rest of the evening over candlelight and pasta. But in that moment, I realized—sometimes the best-laid weekend plans still need a dash of surprise... and a well-grilled burger.