2 months ago
56
It was a rainy Friday in 2005 It wasn’t a candlelit dinner in Paris or a high-end steakhouse; it was the Pizza Hut on West Street , and I was nervous as hell for my first date with Mark. We’d matched on a dating app after bonding over our mutual love for bad 90s sitcoms. He suggested Pizza Hut — nothing fancy, just personal pan pizzas and arcade games. “Low pressure”, he texted. Perfect.
I arrived early, fidgeting in my booth, heart pounding. Mark walked in, drenched from the downpour, his curly hair plastered to his forehead, grinning like he’d won the lottery. “Sorry I’m late — traffic was a nightmare,” he said, sliding in across from me. We ordered: me, a Hawaiian with extra cheese; him, pepperoni loaded. As we waited, we talked non-stop—about our crappy jobs, dream vacations, and how we’d both once cried during a Toy Story marathon.
The pizza arrived steaming, cheese stretching like taffy. Midway through my first slice, I got sauce everywhere. Mark laughed, handing me a napkin. “You’re a mess — in the best way”. We ditched the serious stuff for the buffet’s garlic bread and played air hockey at the dingy arcade corner. He let me win (or pretended to), cheering like it was the Super Bowl.
By closing time, the rain had stopped. Walking to my car, he shyly took my hand. “This was the best non-date ever”. We kissed under the neon sign — awkward, pineapple-sweet, unforgettable.
Eighteen years later, Looking at my husband now, I realize that greasy, perfect dinner was the best meal of my life. We didn’t need white tablecloths to fall in love; we just needed a shared booth, a pitcher of Pepsi, and each other. that Pizza Hut is gone, but we still order stuffed crust on anniversaries. Proof that the best love stories start with greasy fingers and zero pretension.