The Happiest Hour

It was deep in winter.

Snow pours over the sidewalks.

She is hooded like a jedi in a cowl at the closed entrance to a douchey cocktail bar I'd picked to seem a little more ... colourful? I liked that it was a play on words: "the happiest hour" and I'm 10 minutes too late. It's closed for a private event and She's not happy.

I'll never forget her lifting the snow speckled cowl and staring into her giant, scorching eyes.

"You're late" She says, "I was just about to leave"

We walk. Slowly.

Her steps deliberately small in the snow, reigning in my clumsy gate. As I ramble and throw suggestions around.

She lets me lead us to another bar without too many objections. I appreciate this.

She pays.

I'd forgotten to bring any cash to this cash only bar we'd chanced our way into. But three cocktails in, we are giddy and have exhausted most polite conversation.

I don't recall most of the details of that first conversation. Except that her dad was a cartographer in the north Vietnamese army, and she would occasionally break her demure front to randomly cuss at something. I liked that.

While she's in the bathroom, I strike up a conversation with the couple across the bar from me

"It's our first date"

They giggle, tell me they think it's going well, then snog.

When we leave the little branch, we're closer. Having run out of things to say, I suggest pizza.

I remember putting an arm around her, and her sinking into it. Then, remembering the advice from a friend, lean in for a kiss. A mouth kiss.

She likes the kiss,

We like to kiss.

This is good, every thing is great. Even the snow and not being able to get a cab is great. We held hands. We met on ok Cupid. We're​ about to get married. And so it goes.

Now, the happiest hour isn't just the name of a douchey bar we never got into, but also a pretty title for this post.