In a kitschy bar in Cambridge, he asked to sit at my table, though later he would insist that I made the first move.
I was intrigued by his tattoos.
He thought I went to Harvard.
All we had in common was that we’d both almost stayed home.
Friends had dragged us out on a frigid February evening.
We still never agree on anything, except that it’s a darn good thing we sucked it up that snowy night.
Our wild blue-eyed son always stops us in our tracks, reminding us that fate is just as fragile as our memory.