"You're gonna like this one, it's better than last week's, more romantic."

Back when I was merely swooning over his crazy-long eyelashes, I went to my first Joel Smith show. It was an April evening at 2^nd Look Books, a pearl of a used bookstore in Spokane. Luke, Joel’s roommate and coworker and new friend of mine, had nudged me to attend on the premise that he (Luke) would be reading some Portuguese poetry alongside Joel's music. It sounded too bohemian to resist. Besides, it was right next-door to JoAnn’s Fabrics, and I needed to buy some supplies. Surely I could think of something I needed - embroidery thread, maybe? It was the perfect guise, though, as I knew that walking in the bookstore with my rustling JoAnn’s bag would make it very clear that I was just in the neighborhood. I didn’t really know Joel all that well as most of our interactions had been work-related, albeit a little less than professional. I was actually rather nervous about the whole thing, not knowing what kind of crowd I'd find there, or if he'd see me walk in and if so, what he would think of my making an effort to see him play, and, let's face it, who among the adorably dressed, ogling women could be his girlfriend.

I tiptoed around to the very back of the store and half-heartedly looked at the books as though I was looking for a specific section, and once I was safely behind the entire crowd, I settled in. I didn’t commit myself to a chair and instead stood for the next 30 minutes in the juvenile fiction area. I felt like a spy. It was kind of fun, listening to music and looking at beloved titles I hadn’t seen in years, like The Face on the Milk Carton and Summer of My German Soldier.

As tempting as it was to revisit those old favorites, the stuff happening in front of me was much more captivating. Joel started whistling a melody mid-song, then put it on a loop and whistled on top of it. Suddenly he was whistling in three-part harmony with himself and playing the guitar. Then he’d put the guitar down and pick up a glockenspiel. And then a toy accordion. He didn’t even look nervous about it, coordinating all this looping. I’d daresay it was a spectacle. It made me a little on edge at first as I was waiting for him to make the mistake that would smear this carefully layered rainbow of beats and sounds into a murky brown mess. But he kept it going and made it look effortless. Before I knew it I was feeling this sense of pride in the fact that this guy e-mailed me sometimes.

And then he would sing. Holy cow. His voice was warm, barely weathered, and wholeheartedly sincere. His lyrics were rhythmic and clever and vivid. Luke got up and read the poetry but I could have cared less about it at that point (sorry, Luke). I wanted more from the mustachioed songster. At the end of the show, I worked my way out of the world of preteen literature and may as well have headed straight to that section called Romance! Kidding. But after the show I walked over to Joel and told him hello, great job, really, glad I could make it, I was, you know, just down the street and, well, I'll probably be out later at a James Pants show, if you're interested...okay, bye! I walked out the door with my JoAnn’s bag and a full-blown crush.

It took a couple months, but finally, June 18 would prove to be my own sort of Purple Rose of Cairo day, when this dreamy fellow I'd been pining for from the back of a bookstore was standing there in front of me at my apartment door, holding a bottle of wine and asking sweetly, "What are you doing tonight?"