The first thing that should be known is that I wasn’t supposed to be in the dining room that night. Executive chefs don’t get to glide through their own openings like guests who wandered in off the street, we’re supposed to be in the back, sweating, barking at the station chefs about ticket times, and pretending we don’t hear every whispered opinion drifting in from the front of house. But the room was glowing, and I wanted to see it breathe on its own.

It was opening night at Ristorante Panorama, a round room built for light, for watching, for being watched.

The lighting was too good, superb.
That warm, amber wash that makes everyone look like they had taken a bath in photoshop, pretty much they looked more interesting than they actually were. I wanted to see the space breathing on its own.

Panorama Ristorante lived inside what used to be the old Tate Cadillac building on Holt Ave, a dreamy mid-century curve of glass and concrete structure that caught light the way some people catch attention, effortlessly.

And that’s when she walked in.

Not alone, she arrived with our mutual friend I hadn’t seen in 6 years, the one I’ve known for twenty-five years but who somehow managed to keep entire universes of his people away from me. He never mixed his circles. He’d hide his friends like precious artifacts. She was apparently one of the hidden ones.

I’d heard about her and her boyfriend 25 years ago.
She’d heard about me for the same time frame.
But timing is a petty tyrant, and it never lined us up until that night.

She stood just inside the doorway, catching the glow. Glasses that made her look like the well read one in every room. Hair falling in that effortless way that’s probably not effortless at all. A plaid scarf soft enough to suggest she actually cares about comfort but has taste. And that expression, interested, intelligent, like she was auditing the room before deciding whether to participate.

We were introduced and exchanged polite smiles. Civilized. Respectful. I was also introduced to her boyfriend from twenty-five years ago, and honestly, I didn’t think anything of it. I made some comments about my interpretation of the food menu and the wine list. When he drifted off, she stayed and we kept talking, easy, natural. But then he came back, cutting the moment short, and she turned to walk away. Halfway through the turn, she glanced back. A subtle double take. Barely a pause, but enough to register in that part of the brain that notices things it has no business noticing.

It wasn’t dramatic, but it was just enough. And “just enough” is usually where real stories begin.

A week later, we ran into each other at a favorite restaurant of mine. She walked up and talked to me like we weren’t two people who had dodged each other’s existence for two and a half decades. The conversation was short, but the energy was different. More open. More intentional. The kind of moment that makes you suspicious of coincidence.

Weeks passed. Real life did its boring real-life thing, work, deadlines, other people’s noise, until one day Instagram decided it was tired of watching and stepped in. A comment. A reply.

We just started enjoying each other’s company, quietly, and very consistently. We went to art exhibitions, lingering longer than necessary because neither of us seemed in a rush to go home. We tried new restaurants, the kind you don’t tell people about because you want to keep them yours for a little while. It wasn’t romance, not officially. It was just two people doing what they naturally gravitated toward, art, food, and the kind of conversation that stretches out without permission.

And then we traveled.

Not by car, she hates road trips. The idea of being trapped in a vehicle for five hours makes her want to file a complaint. So our relationship formed in airports instead, which is honestly much more cinematic. There’s something about watching a person navigate TSA with grace that tells you they’re built for partnership.

We flew to places that didn’t care who we were. Ate in restaurants where chefs plated food like religious offerings. We didn't stay out later than college kids at a 10 kegger frat house party with no responsibilities, we were mature enough to go home and watch a movie until I fell asleep from the single glass of suav blanc I sipped.

Then there was the trip where everything went sideways, delays, lost reservations, rain that came out of nowhere like a prank. We ended up in a tiny, laughing so hard the waiters were probably relieved when we left. That’s when I learned, compatibility isn’t measured in perfect evenings. It’s measured in the disasters you can talk through. You can learn from. Its beautiful.

Traveling with someone is one thing. Coming home with them is another. That’s where the quirks start revealing themselves.

Like socks.

She’d walk in from work, drop her bag, and then fling her socks across the room with the casual accuracy of someone who was once an Olympian in a past life. Wherever they landed, they landed. Near the fireplace, under the chair. It wasn’t performance art, it was tired from a days work.

Then there was the yogurt for dinner thing. A cup of yogurt, sometimes with granola, sometimes not. She’d eat it cross-legged like she was participating in a minimalist cooking show where the whole point was not cooking anything at all. Strangely, these were the nights I felt most close to her. Or sometimes it was steamed broccoli with rice. It was always something healthy for dinner.

You think you know what love is when it starts, the chemistry, timing, sparks, all the feelings. But you don’t really understand it until the dust settles, until you watch a person move through your space like they belong there.

It wasn’t a grand confession that told me what we were becoming. It was the morning half asleep. The late night conversations that wandered. The quiet car rides where silence felt like companionship instead of distance. Her leaning her head against my shoulder during a rerun. The first, second, and third disagreements.

And yes, it was that first night too. The opening. The double take. The moment she looked back and didn’t realize I’d caught it. That’s where the whole thing began.

People ask how we met, and I could give the long version, the flights, the art, Mohawk Bend, the socks, the yogurt, but the truth is simple.

She looked back.
I saw her.
And nothing was the same after that.

Julian Lucas is a darkroom photographer, writer, and a bookseller, though photography remains his primary language. He is the founder of Mirrored Society Book Shop, publisher of The Pomonan, and creator of Book-Store and PPABF. And yes he will charge you 2.5 Million for event photography.