In August, I wrote a story for these pages called “Unforeseen Romance and Cigarettes” that concerned a quite attractive man and woman I had observed since last winter while walking in downtown Minneapolis.  I had seen them smoking outside their posh office tower on a number of occasions and had watched their relationship move from somewhat awkward cigarette comrades to something a great deal more (my story ended with my unexpectedly witnessing them romantically share a piece of strawberry-topped cheesecake). 

Since publishing the story, I have seen them on a number of other occasions (although I have tried to take much better than Inspector Clouseau care to not have them see me, for fear that they had maybe read my story and would feel something less than pleasure in having been the subject of one of my favorite pieces).  And I’ve noticed that this young couple have indeed become a real “couple” and that the young woman appears to have lost about 30 of the 60 or 70 pounds I thought she perhaps should lose. 

Well, in a move that will surprise no one who reads much on Open Salon, this young man and woman found me.  In a separation of only about three degrees, they contacted me earlier this week through an acquaintance of mine and asked if they could meet me.  They seemed most excited to have been the focus of the story.  And as it was, we met last night for cocktails (but alas, no cigarettes, as I don’t smoke anything stronger than a ballpoint pen, and only when stressed, and Minneapolis bars and restaurants have been smoke-free for years).  Knowing that this couple is usually turned out in quite nice clothing (I think I mentioned that I swear he is often in Armani Collezioni and it turns out, I was right.  Useful skill, being able to detect Armani.), I took care to wear something quite fashionable.  Black velvet and spike-heeled shoes usually work.

But despite their almost too perfect designer looks, this young man and woman, each age 28, exemplify the best of Minnesota Nice.  Without any passive-aggressive tendencies.  They recognized me right away and said they were “so happy to meet you, Miss Stanik.”  I don’t know if it means one is in the elderly aunt who douses too much lilac water category when one is called “Miss” or if they were just being cautiously polite.  I’m just hoping they had read some of my stories about being single. 

We ordered drinks, he a British beer, she a glass of Chardonnay, and, me, my customary Crown Royal Canadian whisky and ginger ale.  They both remarked that Canadian whisky is “pretty strong, I cannot drink it.”  Because nicotine is pretty gentle.  Anyway, the young man said the evening’s libations were his treat.   I’ll call him Erik, a nice Minnesota name.  Although they are thrilled to be the subject of my stories, they do not want to be identified because their parents, siblings and other close relatives do not know that they…smoke.   I don’t know how they pull such deception off but I almost did not care if they called me Miss again.

The reason they wanted to meet me was because, besides finding my story quite entertaining, they wanted to tell me some news.  They work in the same building but for different firms.  They started dating in late June but they had been smoking together since just before last Christmas.  And, just in time for the holidays, they became engaged at Thanksgiving.  The wedding is set for later next summer.  I asked them if they celebrated their news with champagne or cigarettes.  They just smiled most shyly.  She quietly said, while looking at him with one of the beamiest faces I’ve ever seen on anyone not officially an angel; well, champagne, of course.  I told them I was delighted.   I also told them I thought they ought to think about quitting smoking but being a staunch believer in the freedom of choice, I would leave that to them and any thoughts of future robust health and white teeth.

I had the most wonderful evening with these two, who are about as singsong, storybook Minnesota as one could imagine:  families with cabins “up north,” a huge mutual love of hockey, ice skating, skiing,  one or two enunciated “Uff Das” and enough Norwegian and Danish blood between them to ensure any children they might have also could be natural blondes.  They didn’t even duck out to have a smoke, which I found most remarkable.  I asked them to call me Mary.  And while I cannot take credit for their romance, with or without cigarettes, I felt that warm and toasty glow (and it wasn’t from the whisky, as I only had two drinks) you can get from feeling you did something, anything, to make someone else feel, well, warm and toasty.  They said they would “super like to stay in touch” and that I ought to come to the wedding, adding, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically, that “of course, if you have a date or a boyfriend or SOMETHING (capital letters mine), you can bring him along.”  Oh what the hell.  They’re young.  They smoke.  They’re in love.  They dress like models.  Christmas is on the way.  I’ll try to think of something.

The night air was cold when I left the bar but my glow remained.  It does still.  Joy to the world.