By Brandy Black
I met her in a diner on Santa Monica Boulevard in West Hollywood. We flirted in a bar a few weeks later. We first kissed in my bungalow. We had long talks in the car outside of my apartment. We ate ice cream cones on the curb of Fairfax. She dragged me to yoga. I dragged her to dance clubs. We moved in together a year later and shared a 500 square foot apartment. We went to Palm Springs on a whim and learned to aim at a shooting range. We mastered craps in Vegas and stayed in a suite on the strip. She wore sunglasses at night. We ran a marathon and dreamt of our future. We mapped it out. It came true. We bought a condo in a less cooler place than West Hollywood. We planned a wedding when it wasn’t legal. We were engaged for two years. We were married on an island with 80 of our closest friends. Everything went wrong. The wedding was perfect. The honeymoon even better. I learned esposa means wife in Spanish and used it while at Maroma in Mexico. We sold our condo, made some money and bought a house. We dreamt of babies but couldn’t make them, we tried everything. We got a dog. We loved him. I was still sad. We went to Italy and hiked Cinque Terrre. We were still sad. We did IVF. A couple times. When we were about to give up, I got pregnant. It was a miracle. Life was perfect again. We got pregnant again, this time with twins. We sold our house and moved into a bigger one. We got an au pair. We said goodbye to my Audi and got a bigger car. We juggled twin babies and a 3-year-old, it was tough. We muddled our way through. We started date night. That helped. Our twins are 2, our oldest 5, on Friday it will be sixteen years since that first kiss.
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Originally published on The Seattle Lesbian
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