We met: during the second week of classes my second semester at college; he was a junior, tall, charismatic, and (looking back, I realize) moderately full of himself (haha); we'd been smiling at each other for a few days across the room; I wore a tight shirt and a skirt, black clunky heels and tights; it was an upper level lit. course on James Joyce; our professor had just played the film version of "The Dead," and, as class let out, I wiggled quickly past people to be leaving the room at the same time as him:
Me: "That movie was terrible."
Brad: "I thought it was pretty good."
I'm nothing if not sauve.
He asks me out: After class now, standing outside in the mid-January cold; laughing and leaning into each other; he offers to read my fiction some time, I decline vehemently due to embarrassment; then,
Brad: "There's a reading tonight, in Bloomfield, some poets, a bunch of us are going."
Me: "Oh, that sounds awesome, but I'm going home tonight - I have an appt. for a haircut."
A month later: Now we've been dating for, well, a month; we're cuddling at his apt., fully absorbed in beginning-relationship-bliss, that amazing species of feelings; we're trading compliments, probably of the "I loved it when you" variety:
Brad: "I loved that you didn't change your plans that day we met, like, that you didn't cancel your hair appt. just to hang out with me."
Me: "I guess it didn't even occur to me - it's not like I was being all kick-butt independent or something. I obviously would've really loved to go with you though."
Brad: "Go with me?"
Me: "To the reading. You know, like to go on the date with you."
Brad (laughing, shocked): "I wasn't asking you to go with me! I was telling you about it so you could like, take the bus over, and then I would see you there. I wouldn't have wanted to get stuck being there with you the whole night if I didn't like you."
Ahh, now that information will put a damper on the romantic story you tell your grandchildren about how you and Grandpa met.