Two years ago I put on a pushup bra and went to Chinatown. I had dinner with a handsome ginger-haired southerner who ordered Escargot in Pork Gravy and dressed like a middle school substitute history teacher. He made me a mixed CD and and I bought him a beer. We didn’t kiss goodnight, but we hugged like, literally, five times in the car when he dropped me off. I told my friend that he was either going to be my best friend or the love of my life. I was wrong. He is both.
That Friday we had tacos, and he told me about getting a rash on his balls from Superman underwear when he was five, and we had our first kiss over iced coffees on the steps of the monument in the middle of the neighborhood where we now share an apartment and opened a book store and adopted a dog and fell in something that is somehow much much more than love.

I can’t believe it has (only) been 2 years.