"Shut up, and just kiss me..." This was the last thing she said to me before stumbling onto the bus that would deliver her back to the hotel with the rest of the bridesmaids and groomsmen. There's nothing particularly remarkable about Columbus, TX, except maybe the smell of KC Hall. Old people mixed with an elementary school cafeteria might do the trick, if you needed a recipe for it. A five hour drive south from Dallas and half an hour due west of Houston, we were mostly expecting to perform for the usual two-hundred-plus wedding, playing Top 40 for about three hours, then head back to Dallas in the morning. By we, I mean the twelve members of Limelight, the pop-party band of which I was the saxophone player and part time singer. 

  She was completely ungoverned, and effortlessly beautiful. I wouldn't want to diminish her by giving you the ever-so-easy Audrey Hepburn equation. It wouldn't do real justice to her audacity. Her smile was enormous, but not the actual size of Julia Roberts'. Big in the way that it makes you ask questions. Where did she come from? Why is she so captivating? Who's that guy she's dancing with? What is her name? I actually remember thinking, "What is this girl's name?" A question I've never been romantic enough to contemplate at the first sight of a woman. When I had my chance, she was sitting just beside the stage right speaker, alone, catching her breath from the last hour of continuous pop music. I was watching her, the entire sixty minutes, holding my question, rehearsing how I would deliver it. "What's your name?","What is YOUR name?", "Hey, I'm Collin, what's your name?" 
The first set wasn't quite over. Just one song remained for which I wasn't required. When's the last time you heard a saxophone in an AC/DC track? I located her from the stage while placing my sax on its stand. We locked eyes and both smiled without showing teeth. I decided to move, swaggering down the stairs towards her where she was resting at an empty table. She quickly broke her glance. The screaming speaker gave me the permission I needed to get close and lean in past her eyes. At the very moment my lips reached her ear, she landed a perfect, ever so charmingly nervous, involuntary kiss right on my cheek. "Oh..." I laughed as she blushed, shaking her head at her own disbelieve. I went on with my plan, chosing the last option from my mental rehearsal to which she replied, "I'm Tennessee." She had to repeat herself about four times because, remember, "You Shook Me All Night Long" was blasting at 11 from the speaker top, and we were close enough to, well give it a kiss if a little nervous.
 

We talked the entire first break. She was fast, witty, spicy, funny, maybe even a little mean. I loved it. When the second set was beginning so was my shift as a Limelight singer. It always started after the first hour in those days. She hadn't heard my voice yet. So far I was just the saxophone player in Renee's wedding band with a scrappy-half-ponytail-manbun, who she had accidentally kissed on the cheek.
"This is how we do it," came soaring from my mic right before the beat dropped, and Montell Jordan's 1995 number one hit filled KC Hall. It's not the first song I would have chosen to serenade my future wife with, but it worked. She turned around, dropped her jaw, and immediately searched for Kyle. Kyle was the man she had been dancing with as I was ruminating about first impressions. To my relief, he was busy locking lips with his girlfriend, Stephanie. Tennessee was single, and I was singing for her."OG's got the flavor, Yeah, Tennessee's got the flavor." Yes, Limelight is that cheesy. Yes, I changed the lyrics, and yes, the bridesmaids along with the rest of the dance floor now knew, I had an unmistakeable crush on Tennessee. 
 

We talked the entire second break. We discovered that she and I had been a mere walk-across-the-street from one another every Thursday evening from approximately 6:00pm-11:00pm. I, also being a singer songwriter, played a solo acoustic show at Barter, a restaurant in uptown catty-corner from her office, every single week, and she was in the habit of working late. My heart was beating at the discovery. My excitement began to bubble. Now, I had a way to see her again, a real possibility I could pursue. And so, the sparring began.
 

"Come see me next week," I suggested, careful not to add up the serendipity to any detectable amount of desperation. "I don't know, I'm reeeally busy," she countered with a smirk."Oh, you've got twenty minutes  to come have a drink and hear a few songs before you go home," I threw back, with a tinge of demand this time. She paused, raising her eyebrows. "You know, you probably won't ever see me again." She finished me, with absolutely no remorse. She wasn't nervous anymore. The ball was in her court, and she knew it. Damn! She was good. I loved it.
 

Limelight played another hour. The bridesmaids danced, Kyle kissed Stephanie, the remaining 90's hits were checked off the list, everybody drank and I ruminated about her as she fluttered about KC Hall, for one more hour. As the end-of-the-night rituals took over my mental responsibilities, breaking down my saxophone, packing up microphones and releasing my neck from the captivity of its lime green tie, I found her lingering again side-stage. It seemed, though, that it was only to finish her tenth and final glass of red wine before catching the bus. I abandoned my duties, skipped down the stairs and suggested we take a walk to the bar...for water. She followed, silently. "So, you'll come see me on Thursday," escaped one last plea. I surrendered my weight and a little last hope to the bar upon arrival. I was done, she had won at Hard To Get. "I promise, you would have a good..." "Shut up, and just kiss me.." 
 

My heart jumps. My lungs force a breath. I straighten my posture becoming the inch taller needed for a good, confident approach. My shoulders release as I leave my crutch. The gravity becomes stronger as I initiate my advance. I accelerate. Our lips reach the perfect distance for our eyes to close in tandem. And then, something happens. Something beyond a calculation, something instinctual. Something that would eventually make her Mrs. Hauser one day. I stop. Frozen, I open my eyes. She waits and inhales as I remain. Then, with the confidence gathered from my extra height, the divine intervention that riddled me momentarily paralyzed and the space left from the silence the moment she finds her coherence again, I tell her deep and delicately, "There's one of these waiting for you, when you come and see me play." And I walk away.
 

I don't think we would be together if I had kissed her that night. I'm sure you have already safely assumed that she came that next Thursday. She got her kiss. And we've been together, ever since.