Sixteen months ago today, Mr. W challenged me to take our “friendship” up a notch to something less platonic. He asked me by maneuvering me (with dizzying speed) onto my back on the floor of his living room, pinning my wrists above my head, straddling my hips, and leaning into my face while breathing, “You sure you only wanna be ‘just friends’?” One of the hardest things I ever had to do was turn my head to the right and whimper, while cussing in my head, a pathetic sounding “Yes…?” Despite how unsure I sounded, after pausing for about 4 seconds to look carefully into my eyes while I tried to keep the blood away from my cheeks in defiance of my pounding heart, Mr. W good naturedly said, “Okay!”, grinned at me and rolled off of me. I still laid there a few seconds, panting for breath. As consistent as I remained right then to the “there’s too much on my plate right now, I can’t handle anything more than just being friends” talk I gave him at BJs Pizzeria the afternoon before, I knew that everything would change that night. Mr. W would tell you, however, that he knew we wouldn’t stay platonic long from the very beginning, “as soon as you figured out what was good for you,” he’d once said to me facetiously.

I’ve been smiling and giggling ever since. Despite the occasional (okay, monthly) ironing-out-compatibility bicker seshes.