As opening gambits go, telling someone who they are is not among the most scintillating. This past weekend, I met the author Junot Díaz, a writer on whom I have the most unhealthy, all-consuming crush. When I saw him, I did a comical double take, and then I walked over to him and said the words we will likely recall at our small, intimate wedding. I said to him, "you’re Junot." In reply, he smiled and said, "yes, I am." Reader, I kissed him. (On the cheek. And actually, he kissed me first. No, I cannot recall what he smelled like.)
Reader, I kissed him
Reader, I kissed him
Reader, I kissed him
As opening gambits go, telling someone who they are is not among the most scintillating. This past weekend, I met the author Junot Díaz, a writer on whom I have the most unhealthy, all-consuming crush. When I saw him, I did a comical double take, and then I walked over to him and said the words we will likely recall at our small, intimate wedding. I said to him, "you’re Junot." In reply, he smiled and said, "yes, I am." Reader, I kissed him. (On the cheek. And actually, he kissed me first. No, I cannot recall what he smelled like.)