The first time I met my wife was in the salon. She walked in wearing Mardi Gras beads some months after Mardi Gras. The salon I worked at had a patio outside. I was listening to my Walkman, wearing my Reeboks and shorts that I can’t describe.
I saw her when she came in. I watched her walk outside where I was. She said, “Who are you?”
There are beautiful women all over the world, and here was one asking me a question. How do you answer that?
This way: “Who are you?”
First date. Movie. She yawned the entire time because she had partied all night before. If all I’m gonna see is your molars, I’m out.
I was having dinner with some workmates. There she is.
“You’re an asshole.”
“Why?”
“You never called me back.”
“You yawned the entire date.”
My apartment, walking to the laundry.
“I’ll probably marry you someday.”
Thirty-nine years and counting.
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