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and move away and stop being friends with me.
    “We spent a whole day together at the zoo . . .” I folded a napkin into a flimsy paper airplane, trying to look casual. Zoo? What? Please don’t hook up with this boner and get married and move away and stop being friends with me.
    “We exchanged numbers when we got back to Chicago, but of course he hasn’t called me . . .” Please, please, please don’t hook up with this boner and—Wait a second.
    “Boner Boy didn’t call you?” I asked, trying to conceal my happiness.
    Kristen wasn’t even interested in Boner Boy, or “Ryan,” as she called him. It was, she told me, simply the thrill of allowing herself to flirt with someone without feeling guilty about it.
    “It was just nice to know that I could flirt, should I happen to find myself attracted to someone.” She gazed at me for a moment, and I forgot how to breathe.
    After ratcheting up my courage, I said, “Tell me about your ideal guy.”
    She described him as being engaging, funny, sweet, completely devoted to her. “Oh, and he’d have to know how to order my coffee,” she added coyly.
    Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh boy.
    My heart raced as she adjusted herself in her chair, crossing her legs, letting her lovely shoe dangle from her toes. Her hair spilled over her fingers as she rested her face in her hand, smiling at me.
    “Tell me about your ideal woman,” she said.
    My answer, in its entirety, was sitting right in front of me. I just didn’t know if I was reading the situation correctly.
    Are we really doing this?
    I was pretty sure that we were, but then again, I can’t always tell when people are flirting with me and when they’re just being nice. When I used to play in bands in college, girls would ask me during bar gigs if I wanted to get a drink with them, and I’d decline, raising my cup and saying, “No, thanks. I’ve already got my 7-Up and orange juice.” If a waitress brought a check with a smiley face drawn on it I’d think, Wow, smiley face . . . That’s pretty forward. Does she want me to call her? I need things to be black-and-white.
    Kristen’s eyes locked on mine, bringing me back. She smiled.
    “Well, if you’re asking . . .”
    “I am,” she said softly.
     
    That moment reminded me what it meant to feel alive—my face getting hot, my mouth stammering, my words sounding not even remotely poetic. It all somehow led to more amazing moments that evening: going to her house afterward, talking all night about how our friendship was changing and how exciting it felt. Kissing her, and waking up the next morning on her couch, wrapped in her arms.
    The euphoria continued, and we were certain it would last. There were trips to Minnesota, Utah, Wisconsin. There were hundreds of restaurants. There were discussions about how lucky we were to have each other. There was a single “I love you” that opened the door to countless more. There were flowers and family introductions and an engagement ring, and still more discussions about how lucky we were to have each other. There was our first house. There were photographers to book and a wedding cake to order. And finally, there were wedding vows.
    All this because some doofus bonked his nose against his knee. Yes, our wedding pictures seem to say, that really happened.
     
    It’s our third anniversary. Much has changed since the silly days of high school and the euphoria of dating. We’re sitting in a fancy restaurant. Our chairs aren’t squeezed together—instead, they seem miles apart. There’s no fireplace, and by tomorrow morning, I will have forgotten what Kristen is wearing. The last few rolls of sushi remain on the platter, illuminated by a candle. My small saucer of soy is almost empty, just some bits of rice and wasabi mingling in the shallow pool. We’re supposed to be celebrating but we haven’t spoken much. Work. Our baby. Building the new house. People at other tables are chattering, smiling, drinking. I look up to ask if