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shaking off his other hand, sending droplets flying. There was a grimace on his face, like he was in pain. Several large brown splotches dampened the front of his shirt. “I’m so sorry.”
    I stood, helpless, with my hands extended toward him, like somehow my bare hands could do something in this situation.
    He shook his arm a couple more times, then looked over at me. He smiled, a completely disarming smile, and I swear my heart stopped. Those perfect white teeth, the intense brown eyes that seemed to sparkle. “Don’t worry about it.”
    “I can get you some paper towels. They’re in a box somewhere….”
    “It’s okay.”
    “Or a new shirt? I might have a T-shirt that would fit….”
    He looked down at his shirt and was quiet for a moment, as if considering. “It’s okay, really. Thanks, though.” He shot me another smile and then continued on his way. I stood in the middle of the sidewalk and watched him go, waited to see if he’d turn back, change his mind, all the while feeling an overwhelming sense of disappointment, a powerful urge to talk to him just a little bit longer.
    Love at first sight, I later said.
    The rest of the morning, I couldn’t get him out of my mind. Those eyes, that smile. Later that afternoon, with my belongings safely in my apartment, I was exploring my new neighborhood when I saw him, leafing through books at a stand outside a small bookshop. Same guy, new shirt—a white one this time. Totally engrossed in the books. It’s hard to describe the feeling that coursed through me—excitement and adrenaline and a strange sense of relief. I’d have another chance after all. I took a deep breath and walked over, stood beside him.
    “Hi,” I said with a smile.
    He looked up at me, his expression blank at first, and then recognition dawned. He smiled back, revealing those perfect white teeth. “Well, hello.”
    “No boxes this time,” I said, and then wanted to cringe. That’s the best I could come up with?
    The smile was still on his face. I cleared my throat. I’d never done this before. I nodded in the direction of the coffee shop next door. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee? I think I owe you one.”
    He looked at the awning of the coffee shop, then back at me. His expression was guarded.
Oh God, he has a girlfriend,
I thought.
I never should have asked. How embarrassing
.
    “Or a shirt? I think I owe you that, too.” I smiled, kept my voice light, joking.
Good thinking, Viv. You just gave him an out. He can laugh off the invitation
.
    To my surprise, he cocked his head and said words that filled me with relief and anticipation and just plain giddiness. “Coffee sounds great.”
    We sat in the back corner of the coffee shop until dusk descended on the city. The conversation flowed so easily, never a lull. We had so much in common: We were our parents’ only children, nonpracticing Catholics, apoliticals in a political city. We’d each traveled around Europe on our own, on a shoestring budget. Our mothers were teachers, we’d each had a golden retriever as a kid. The similarities were almost eerie. It seemed like fate that we’d met. He was funny and charming and smart and polite—and drop-dead gorgeous.
    Then, with our coffee cups long since drained and an employee wiping down the tables around us, he looked at me, unbridled nervousness on his face, and asked if he could take me to dinner.
    We went to a little Italian place around the corner, had heaping portions of house-made pasta and a carafe of wine and a dessert that neither of us had room for but ordered anyway, as an excuse to linger. We never ran out of things to say.
    We talked until the restaurant closed, then he walked me home, taking my hand, and I’d never felt so warm, so light, so happy. He kissed me good night on the sidewalk outside my building, the same spot where I’d bumped into him that very day. And by the time I drifted off to sleep that night, I knew I’d met the man I was going to