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people-watch or read books together. Sometimes, we would simply drive around in her car and talk. I would do my best to follow the conversation, but often I was distracted—pleasantly—by the scent of her perfume, the closeness of her body. The way she looked in her workout clothes, or how she would ask me to steer while she re-formed her ponytail. Things that themselves were not new to me but that I had begun noticing more. Things that I’d think about long after we’d said good night.
    We began talking on the phone every day, and she would occasionally send me little cards thanking me for making her laugh, for making her feel good about herself, for helping her to be excited about life again. I started making opportunities to see her throughout the day. If I knew that she was going shopping after work, I would sneak out of my office and drive to the mall just so that we could accidentally bump into each other as I casually strolled past Ann Taylor—because what guy doesn’t browse women’s fashions at three thirty in the afternoon on a weekday?
    I was also doing everything I could to stifle logical thinking. Logical thinking prevents us from making catastrophic mistakes. We don’t pick fights with bears. We don’t lick a hot stove more than once. And, if we’re relying solely on logic, we don’t fall in love with our best friends. Logic by itself wouldn’t let us do such a thing—to jeopardize a close, meaningful relationship for the sake of romance. But feelings have a way of defeating rational thought.
    One night in May, Kristen and I met at our usual spot. She had recently gone on vacation and I was eager to hear about her trip. We took our favorite seats beside the fireplace—a pair of plush, oversized chairs that we liked to pull close together, so that our knees almost touched. Kristen always seemed to look just right in hers, easing herself naturally into the comfort, kneading her shoulders against the seat back, and crossing her legs.
    That night, as usual, I was having a hard time settling in and looking normal. While I had come to know it as my regular chair, it was still a public chair, and there really was no telling who might have settled into it before me. Gross folks, probably. The dander and oils of the masses had been embedded deep into the velveteen upholstery so I was reluctant to remove my coat and settle back, fearful that I might absorb the gook of strangers. Kristen enjoyed a good chuckle watching me as I tried to get comfortable.
    She looked especially attractive that evening. Her dark blue jeans and thin cashmere sweater, her high-heeled sandals. It all worked. Suddenly, I was right back in the high-school dressing room, eluding the mandatory vocal warm-ups and gluing on my mustache.
    Her clothes, though, were no match for her suntan, which she had gotten on her trip to San Diego. When I commented on it, she gently pulled aside the neck of her sweater and used her fingertips to trace the narrow tan line along her shoulder and neck. Oh, schwing. Sliding her fingers back and forth, grinning toward the ceiling, she whispered, “Not here so much . . . Or here . . . But right here.” This was a line from Tommy Boy, one of our favorite movies, and as she said it, with her delicate fingertips tracing her collarbone, I couldn’t imagine liking anyone more than her.
    She laughed and started telling me about her trip. My focus shifted between what she was saying and the delicate wisp of blond hair that had fallen lazily over her eye. The beach was nice; she befriended a duck that was living behind her hotel; she met a guy. My ears perked up.
    “I beg your pardon?”
    He was, she explained, a lot like me. “Only not as funny as you. Or maybe not as cute? I don’t know. Not as something as you.”
    Go on.
    “We met on the plane and had the best time talking . . .” I chugged half my coffee, trying to look casual. Sounds like a douche. Please don’t hook up with this boner and get married