His smile met my smile and our eyes locked. Like we had our own spotlight — that’s how it was. He walked me to my car and we laughed until the allure between our lips won the conversation. Two nights later, we got dinner, and the waitress asked how long we’d been together. That’s how it was. We laughed then too and talked about kids. He taught me to love the sound of rain. And I taught him to love the sound of joy. He hated cast iron. He said, “Every time I wash them, they rust.” and I laughed. Once I climbed his fire escape to surprise him at his kitchen window. He jumped and stifled a scream while talking to his father long distance. Love scared the shit out of both of us. I still see his smile waxing and waning in crescent moons.