"So, how do you want to do it?" She asked.
"Can I come with you, if you go to that reading?"
"Did you like that song I sent you?"
"Isn't that fucking amazing? Did you see the one with the twigs, hanging from the trees?"
"I know, right?" (Totally)
"This would be the worst first date." She was laughing. She was totally serious. But it wasn't a date, and it was hilarious and John's furious blush was as much from the belly laughing and trying to drive as it was his mysteriously soaked posterior.
They got home, to her home, and her boyfriend came down the stairs, ruddy and big glasses and widely grinning; curious about the boisterousness in his kitchen. They laughed and traded their days apart like easy poker hands while the cats fought.
The first time they hung out in a meaningful way: Running into each other like the best brunch time five car pile up. They'd just finished, but John and his wife were good company and the conversation flowed like coffee (for the record: meandering, lingering and deep, full bodied) and someone thought: "I could spend the rest of my Sundays like this." as they were giving their see-you-later hugs.
Life, flowing like the blues and laughing like the young dyke with dyed white hair, a soft morgan freeman face and Beyoncé tits.