Erinn Hayes

I put on weight since I'd last seen him, and he was shorter than I remembered.

But he was still wearing his leather jacket, the one he hilariously stole from a homeless woman on our first date.

You look fucking hot, he said, grabbing me and lifting me up in his arms.

I wrapped my legs around him and looked at his face, taking it all in.

The familiar scars, the new wrinkles, the controversial eyelid piercing that 20 years later did not appeal to have healed correctly.

I'm busting your ass out of here.

I smiled, and looking into his eyes, in the presence of God, the police chief, and the hooker sharing my cell, I took his hand to my lips and kissed it.

I do.

Thank you.