I met QB back in the 70s at a bar in the lower east village.
He swaggered up to my table, as a friend and I argued over the merits of bookkeeping versus book tossing.
I raised my gaze to a 45-degree angle.
“Hello,“ he said. “You’re a cute little number. I’d like to buy you a drink”
I calculated my options, thought the drink would turn a profit, and so I said, “Yes.”
He picked up the tab, and then led me to a table with a prime number of chairs in the back of the room.
In a husky voice, he whispered into my ear, “One plus one equals two,” grabbed a chair, and gestured for me to sit.
He hunched over the table across from me in his tie-dye shirt, a remnant from his sixties inventory of clothing.
I immediately fell for his quirky smile and flashy green eyes. As the night wore on, I discovered he had an even temperament, as well as an extensive database of amusing stories. After three more drinks and a $20 burger, I knew I was in love.
It didn’t take long for me to figure out that no other guy could measure up or even outperform QB’s assets. He had infinite charm and an excellent taste in programs.
To sum it all up, I simply knew that QB was the one for me, a man I could always count on.
Later on, we went back to his place to seal the deal between the sheets. It exceeded all my expectations.