Another “how we met” story.

This is how we met:

Somewhere deep in the belly of Brooklyn, below the hipsters and the strollers and the empty PBR cans in the street, there is a hard drive that contains the look on my face when I first fell for my boyfriend.

In the picture, I’m looking in the camera, my eyes swollen with intrigue, his arm gently hugging my waist. It wasn’t the first time we had met, but it was the first time we remembered. It was caught—that effortless, sweet moment—by a party photographer who was struggling to balance both his camera and his Canadian Club whiskey.

This was the second time boyfriend and I had been introduced to each other, but this time we were immediately photographed. We were at a party for a flashy young internet startup and painfully unaware of one another.

(Picturebook Romance: You’ve Got to Photoshop Your Love Away another column I wrote under a pseudonym for The Gloss)

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