Two years ago, I hadn't met the man I live with. I was loving single life in the city, meeting friends for dinner, spending suspicious amounts of time in disreputable pool halls, locking myself in my apartment for entire weekends to devour a novel or two, relishing solitary Sunday nights when I would pick up a pizza and watch The Simpsons and the X-Files.

Then one Thursday night in early June, I had a dinner date with Katey. We started, of course, with happy hour at Bedrock. As we strolled out, we paused to chat briefly with some friends at one of Rocky's outdoor tables, and moved on to Perry's rooftop for sushi.

An hour later, I kiss-kissed Katey goodbye (tres continental!) and loitered again outside Rocky's. "Have a seat," said Sean, "I was just leaving." "No no no," I said, "I've got to be getting home." "I insist," said Sean. "Well, okay," I said, and plopped down next to My Future Boyfriend.

E had a book with him—something by Jim Harrison—which a) charmed me and b) gave us something to talk about. Talk we did. Eventually everyone else moved on to a birthday party; somehow we wound up at Bedrock playing pool. I was sassy and not a good sport.

Later, I scribbled my number on the back of a grocery receipt, hopped into a taxi and was whisked away into the night. Et voila, here we are, the happy couple.