First Kiss.

On November 26, 1999, I had a date. It was a first date, which I was nervous about, with a guy I really didn’t know that well, which I was also nervous about. He was a guitar teacher and we met while drinking coffee at The Fringe. I would mark and mutter, and he would try to engage me in conversation. That’s what he says, anyhow.

But the date? It was a New Years Eve party (in case the real one sucked) at the ANZA club.  We got there and it was this slightly grotty cavelike place. There were lots of people I knew, also from The Fringe. My date was solicitous and generous with the beer. I thought, “Hey, this is nice, this socializing thing. Maybe I should do this more.” I was in the middle of my long teaching practicum, so tended not to actually see people much.

My date asked me to dance. I looked at his horrible orange-and-blue patterned polo short and up into his face, and smiled.

He kissed me on that dance floor. Right in front of a bunch of his friends, people who have become my friends, and I thought, Oh. Yes. This one.

And I never looked back.

Happy anniversary to E and me.  I love that man. And one day I will be able to throw out that orange-and-blue patterned polo shirt. A girl’s got to have goals.

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