Oh, what a perfect day, Charlie Chaplin, I'm so glad I spent it with you.

It was one of those flawless afternoons that seemed to drift up from the lost summers of youth, when the whole world held its breath in a golden hush.

Just a perfect day, old sport. We sat beneath the dappled shade of the elms in some forgotten park, sipping sangria that tasted of distant Spanish hills and careless wealth, while the light filtered through the leaves like champagne through crystal. And later, when the blue hour settled over the city and the first electric stars pricked the sky, we drifted homeward through streets that whispered of promise.

Just a perfect day. We fed the bright-eyed creatures in the zoo, tossing peanuts to monkeys that chattered like guests at one of Gatsby's parties, and later we slipped into the velvet darkness of a picture house, where shadows danced across the screen in silver silence. Then home once more, through the soft summer night.

Oh, it was such a perfect day—
I'm glad I spent it with you.
Such a perfect day…
You keep me hanging on,
you keep me hanging on.