I know who I am going to marry. I met him at the convention. He's tall, with broad shoulders and rich bronze skin. His hair hangs down to his waist but he often twists it tightly at the nape of his neck. Not into a bun, but an intricate Boy Scout knot. He's dressed in all black. Crisp button down shirt open at the collar so the sterling silver chain can be seen. He looks good in black.
He likes to listen to my stories. He sits at my feet, at the foot of the bed, listening to my words. They make him laugh, fill him with wonder. How can anyone create a world such as this? He doesn't understand failure, or how I can doubt my future as a published author. "You're already an author," he says. "Start smiling."
