Dear Jen
Dear Jen,
I didn't mean for it to happen. You know that, right? I didn't even know you then. Not really. It started when you and Melissa had that potluck dinner, remember? I'm not even sure how we got invited. The fi rst time I met you was at my house for Patty's 40th birthday party. Sue brought you guys. The more the merrier, I'd told her. I liked you both instantly, but I didn't get hit by the freight train-that is, you-until your potluck a year later. An entire year later.
We knocked on your front door. No one answered, so we walked in. You appeared as if you'd had one eye on the door all along. Your white tank top brought out your tan flawlessly, but it wasn't then that I fell for you. No, not then. You welcomed us into your house, took our pasta salad offering, and showed Patty and me where the drinks were. Melissa took over and handed us plastic cups. We chuckled when she handed us magic markers and told us to write our names on the cups. I got the distinct feeling the markers were her idea, not yours. She also showed us the sign pointing toward the bathroom, and told us about the "discussion" you guys had about hanging the sign.
"Jen doesn't think drunk girls need help finding the bathroom," she said.
