They sat in the back of the law school library, in the chairs closest to the expansive windows looking out over Bascom Hill and its steep grassy incline that was now peppered with crimson, ginger, and flaxen-colored fallen leaves.
They were supposed to be studying for their civil procedure midterm, just a few days away. They pretended to be analyzing amorphous legal concepts like laches, affirmative defenses, and compulsory joinder. Instead, they talked and listened, consumed with learning more about the other.
They shared his set of headphones, one ear free to listen to the words of the other, as if making up for the lost time before they had met. They chattered on about possible summer plans, job aspirations, friends, families, what they had done the previous weekend. They gossiped about the annoying girl in class – the one who always seemed to be the first one to shoot her arm in the arm to answer the professor’s Socratic line of questioning.
Occasionally, they would tell themselves that they really needed to study. They would stare at their notes and words like “venue” and “mitigation” jumped off the page with little meaning. They were lost in their own thoughts – she regretting the slipshod ponytail, he wondering what to say next.
Did they have any idea that their flirtatious friendship would eventually turn into a love affair – one that would result in marriage four years later, a son seven years later, and another son three years after that?
But they both new that something about this person was…different. Maybe, just maybe, this was “The One.”
So they shared their one set of earphones and chattered on.
Yes, my husband and I met in law school. Yes, our relationship was sparked by a conversation at the back of the law school library. Yes, my hair was probably in a ponytail or under a gray flannel hat. We didn’t share a set of headphones, but he did buy me a blueberry muffin.