Announcement: Commenting is now on hold until troll problem can be dealt with - nothing is deleted, it's just disabled. If you are getting nasty responses to nice comments that purport to be from me, they are not from me. Please, let's all be cool, like Fonzie.


I’m sitting at the Bourgeois Pig cafe on Fullerton, next to two people who are obviously on a first, blind date. You wouldn't necessarily notice them at first - they are average looking white people in a room and a neighborhood full of the same, but something about them is making the whole room hum. They are both so NERVOUS. They are both talking too fast and too much. And then they fall silent and grin, with these huge geeky grins if they happen to make eye contact. She keeps dropping things and he keeps picking them up and then they meet under the table and she blushes deep red and so does he.

He’s tall, with brown hair and thick glasses with black frames. She’s short and curvy, with thick curly brown hair. They look adorable together. As I watch them, I root for them to spend the whole day together. They should go to a movie, or walk over to the park. I want them to make out all night. I want her to say “I never do this” and undo his belt. I want him to say “me neither” and help her with the buckle. I want him to call when he says he’ll call, and cook her breakfast, and bring her daffodils. I want her to buy a new dress, in a color she’s never worn before, and wear it for him. Oh My God, they have matching messenger bags. She’s telling some story about her favorite children’s book, and he’s read it, loved it too. She looks up at him and smiles and she’s gorgeous and he just blinks out at her from behind his glasses as if he can’t believe that this girl is with him. His eyes are blue, and kind. For a few minutes no one drops anything – they just sit there and grin and blush.

A year from now I want them to be living together in the top of a 3-flat somewhere. They’ll paint all the walls in bright colors, and the space will overflow with books – her children’s book collection, his graphic novels, side-by-side on the shelf. They’ll have a housewarming party and all their friends will come. Family and friends will surround them, smiling indulgently at these two who can’t seem to stop looking at each other, to stop smiling when they mention each other’s names. Neither of them will be able to believe their good luck, how much better their lives are now that they come home to a smiling face, a pot of soup on the stove, dueling crosswords in bed on Sunday mornings, knees and elbows kissed under the quilt, surprisingly passionate sex that can still make them blush when they think about it, naps in the hammock on the back porch. For the first six months she’ll cry every time he makes her come, and he’ll hold her and stroke her hair, shocked at his own power to undo and to comfort another human being. She’ll secretly take belly-dancing lessons at the Y and surprise him on his birthday, shy bookworm transformed into a siren, unrecognizable, powerful, his.

Now they are getting ready to leave....I can see and hear the hopefulness in each of them...”Do you have any plans for the rest of the day?” “I was supposed to help my friend pack.” “Oh.” “But I can do it tomorrow.” “Oh!” “Want to just walk around for a while?” “We could go over to the zoo.” “I came on my bike.” “Really? Me too.” Already there is something protective and proprietary in the way he behaves toward her, clearing the table for her, opening the door. No one else in the world exists. They are pure static electricity. He will always open doors for her, let her have the window seat on airplanes, and cover her with a blanket when she falls asleep on the couch. She will nurse his colds with homemade chicken soup, stand in line to get a book signed by his favorite author.

All their neuroses and annoying quirks will be loveable to one another – he spends too much money on CDs, she’s always 15 minutes late. They will never, ever take each other for granted. Day jobs, the cable bill, dirty cereal bowls, global warming, international strife will become more bearable. Their first Christmas they’ll go to the pound and adopt a puppy and a kitty, and they’ll sit on the floor of their place – in long johns and pajamas and big wooly sweaters and play with their new family. When they shyly announce their engagement, no one they know will be surprised – their friends and family will laugh and laugh, because they knew all along that these two will marry and have adorable round geeky babies – this woman was made to be pregnant, this man was made to cup a baby’s head in huge, trembling hands. These two have been moving toward each other their whole lives – someone else who loves Le Petit Prince, someone who hates getting all dressed up, someone who can talk about politics without getting shrill and angry, someone who thinks deeply about things and tries to be a good person, someone who doesn’t have an easy time forming attachments but who loves deeply and lastingly when it happens.

At 40 they will be more beautiful than they have ever been, all awkwardness gone, two people in the prime of life, standing upright, still in love, both somehow more than they would ever be alone. This is what I wish for these two people who are geeking on each other across a cafe table littered with crosswords and mochas, with me sitting by, a silent fairy godmother, honored to witness love’s birth. Right now, I could believe and hope for almost any good thing.