When I met your father, the first thing I noticed about him was his smile.
It appeared, slow and easy, across his face when he saw me walking toward him.
We were in a folk music club in the basement of an old church, the spring of my sophomore year. He offered me his chair and a beer. I offered to share the cup of popcorn I’d snagged on my way in.
We listened to a woman with a smoky voice sing about a crystal castle she’d build in the sky.
He called me his crystal queen.