This is our creation myth. Mark and I have told it and retold it countless times, separately and together, and each time it is a little different. It grows and shrinks, is embellished and simplified to enfold our listeners and encompass who we are today. Since I don't really know who is listening, you can listen in on the tale I tell myself today...

When I started college, I spent a lot of time standing in line: standing in line to buy books, standing in line to sign up for classes, standing in line to get meals, standing in line to sign up for phone service and standing in line to use pay phones before the phone service was turned on. There must be fewer lines to wait in today than there were in the late 80's. Today, in the age of cell phones and the Internet, Mark and I might never have met that first time at all, waiting in one of those now non-existent lines. But it wouldn't really have mattered, because the universe gave us a second chance, and thank goodness, because we needed it.

Mark was standing -- actually sitting is probably more accurate, it was a slow moving line -- in line behind me. My first impression was, "Ick! What a nerd!" I picture him -- perhaps not accurately, perhaps tainted by pictures I've seen of him since -- a skinny guy wearing tiny red shorts with white piping, a tight white and red high school marching band t-shirt and white athletic socks pulled straight up to his knees. He had thick glasses: the kind that consisted of enormous eye-distorting lenses, bent wire frames and possibly some duct tape. And a lot of out-of-control hair.

He struck up a conversation with me in a way that made me just a little uneasy. He was a little too friendly. Or was it needy? Or was it just nerdy? He asked where I lived, and for some reason, I told him. He said he would stop by and see me sometime, and I hoped like hell he never would. And he didn't, at least not that year or the year after. I saw him around campus but never acknowledged him, and he didn't seem to remember who I was at all. Thank goodness, right?

Two years later, at the beginning of our junior year, when my boyfriend at the time was off studying abroad, Mark did stop by, but to see one of my roommates, not me. I'm the one who doesn't quite remember this second meeting, but legend has it that I opened the door, and when he said, "Hi, I'm Mark," I replied, "I know. We've met, but you don't remember me. I'm Mary."

The second time around, we hit it off instantly, and I wondered why I had been so cold the first time. Mark was so funny. He reminded me of an old high school love of mine, who could always make me laugh like hell. We would laugh together, still laugh together, so much that it's hard to breathe, hard to catch my breath in the whirlwind and the laughter and the crazy carnival ride that is Mark. We would stay up late at night sharing a pint of Ben & Jerry's or Häagen Dazs and talking, getting to know each other. We would joke that we shared the same childhood; it's what brought us together, we said, without knowing what that really meant. We were drawn together by the shared fun of childhood: Star Wars action figures and Japanese anime cartoons and ice cream. But we were also drawn together because we understood the dark parts: family fights and unpaid bills and never, ever feeling like we fit in or were good enough.

And all those crazy little romantic things I'd always wanted someone to do, Mark would do. I'd say I was thirsty and he'd rush out of the room and return with soda in a plastic champagne glass. He'd leave a flower wrapped in an e.e. cummings poem in front of my door. He'd sneak up behind me and put his hands over my eyes. He'd do magic tricks and back flips. He'd sing to me. He'd call me his beautiful. And he was so sexy. Irresistibly, unthinkably, electrically sexy. Was it the sweet things he did or the connection we had or his soft touch or his rich dark skin and eyes? I don't know. I only know I wanted him close to me, whispering to me, laughing with me, touching me, all the time. And over 15 years later, I still do.

The night before my boyfriend came back from his time abroad, I lay on the sofa in my dorm room while Mark sat in front of me on the floor. He'd gently stroke a few strands of my hair down in front of my face, my lips, and I'd blow them off: wwwwhhh. Then he'd stroke another few strands down: wwwwhhh. That went on and on; each of us satisfied with this game that let him touch me. He asked me to walk with him back to his room, and I did, staying a few steps above him on the stairs, because I knew he wanted to kiss me, and I knew he couldn't if I were up above him. So many times, I wish I had just come down the stairs and kissed him then, but I stayed a few stairs above him and said goodnight.

I told myself I was in love with my boyfriend, but I fantasized about Mark when we made love. I'd rush him away at night to spend time talking with Mark. Until one night, the wind was blowing in wild autumn gusts, and Mark and I caressed each others' hands. We sat face to face for half an hour, our hands and arms twining like snakes, mahogany and ivory, twisting together. And then we kissed, with the wild wind rushing and driving the dry leaves outside outside, kissed with our hands together like a vine from one root. We didn't make love that night, but it wasn't long after.

My roommate was out of town, and I called Mark and begged him to come over. He did, and we went walking in the fields in the snow: in the silence and the dark, softly walking in the snow. Then we came back to my room, and I remember how he stood, silhouetted against the window, darker than the darkness, before he came and lay me down on the floor. We never made it to the bed, just made love time after time on the floor. We'd doze and wake and make love, fall asleep and wake up making love again. We spent the night like one body, one person, moving together, asleep or awake, until the pale rosy glow of the rising sun crept through the window. For all the times I'd imagined it, fantasized about it, being there with Mark was more beautiful, more loving, more tender, more spiritual, more whole than imagination or dreams could ever have envisioned.

And that's where I'll leave us. I'll skip over all the pain and the indecision and the guilt. I'll skip the part where I vowed to stay away from Mark and the part where I couldn't, drawn to him, constantly, like water rushing down a hill. I'll skip the part where Mark stopped speaking to me for six months. I'll skip the part where I stopped eating and lost so much weight I could see my bones. I'll skip the part where I dreamt beautiful dreams of Mark every night and woke in tears every morning. I'll skip the part where my former boyfriend and I moved in together, and I'll skip the part where Mark broke the silence. I'll skip the part where my boyfriend and I finally broke up, several years too late, and I moved out hundreds of miles to be with Mark. I'll skip the years it took for Mark and me to build trust in each other after all of the drama. I'll skip the beautiful engagement, where I smiled so long and so hard, my face ached. I'll skip the beautiful wedding, so hard to look back on for so long, because of the vows that were broken so soon. I'll skip the marriage that seemed like a honeymoon every day -- except for those occasional weird little misgivings... I'll skip the births of our son and our daughter. I'll skip the revelation of sex addiction and the four years of rebuilding we've done since.

I'll skip all of that, because this is the creation myth, and the story ends in happily ever after, with those lovers finally together, bodies intertwined, in that singular moment of bliss, watching the sun rise, aching with joy.