It was a brisk November night in a central London nightclub when I first saw my husband’s dimples. I was a grad student in my early twenties, and I had on a baby-blue discount T-shirt dress and bright-red lipstick from the drugstore. I was my flatmate’s plus one at a place known as the West End’s closest thing to Rio. Fortified with liquid courage from a caipirinha, I hit the dance floor.
A casually dressed man with a freshly shaved fade in his Afro hair made his way through the crowd with a few casual hip swivels. He grooved his way toward me. The disco lights flashed across his face, highlighting the deep dimples piercing both of his cheeks. His skin was smooth and clean shaven. He flashed a smile and offered me his hand to dance. He radiated kindness. How could I say no?
