Five years ago on Friday the 13th, I was working at Barnes and Noble. A handsome man in a suit coat and jeans came into the children's section, and before I could blink, he had smoothly taken over the running of the book release event that had been put in my charge minutes before. My territorial-ness was quickly replaced by awe: this guy was good, way better than me, and watching him bound around with the kids gave me a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Later, while we were cleaning up, I asked him to go for a drink after work. He brushed me off with some lame, rambling excuse, and I shrugged and I went back to work. An hour later, he appeared at my shoulder and suggested a place we could go.
That first date was wonderful. I, in my usual bristly fashion, told him all the things about me that were sure to scare him away...but he didn't leave. We ended up picking up my best friend after our drink at a divey blues bar and going for ice cream. He passed the BFF test on the first night.
Within a week, he'd sent me flowers at work. But more importantly, he'd brought me dinner and sat with me while I was working: I had always secretly dreamed of the homey simplicity of a man who would be with me wherever I was, even in the break room at a store.
A month later, I took him home for Thanksgiving to meet my family. They loved him.
They still do. We've been married for three years.