[WP] You've been dating your partner for six months. Tonight they've invited you to a work event, and as you step onto the red carpet, you realize it for the first time: you're dating a celebrity.

You never realize just how noisy and distracting it is to be on the red carpet until you’re there, microphone inches from your nose, trying to bullshit your way through endless rounds of questions: “In each of her roles, she brings a new energy, a new facet of her personality, that I had never seen before. It’s impossible for me to name just one.” (that last sentence was the truest I’d say all night) “Well, you know, we just try to have a normal relationship. We’re very private people.” (although apparently we’ve been too private with each other) “Who am I wearing? I don’t understand the question.” (cue laughter) (cue confusion) “Of course we’re in love. Aren’t we, honey?” (this was the first time I had said those words, but she nodded, so I must be in the clear) As Emily spoke to the camera, I had a moment to return to my normal train of thoughts. How much do you think this carpet would cost to buy? Do you think they’ll give us a piece as a souvenir if we ask nicely? Why red, though? From the moment we stepped out of the limousine, the same memory had been swirling in my head. On our second date, Emily had asked if I liked television. “I never really have the time for it. Haven’t since the 90s,” I said. She’d smiled, then laughed, then looked away in an uncharacteristically shy manner. “Really?” she asked, looking back at me with the same intensity I was already falling in love with. But you know what I really loved about her? She thought I was funny. No one had ever called me funny before her. I once joked that she was beautiful, and if she were taller, she could be a movie star. Alas! She’d loved that one. Or that time I suggested that my Civic was the height of modern automobile construction, giving an itemized list of reasons why we shouldn’t take her Porsche. I just assumed she’d come from money. Not that that factored into my dating her. The carpets have a subtle push forward, like psychic slow-moving traffic, to create room for oncoming arrivals. Emily, still talking to the reporter, squeezed my hand twice. We’d agreed long ago on that as our signal for get-me-the-hell-out-of-here. We each had our anxieties, and the other created exit strategies. “Just thrilled to be here. Have a good night,” I said, but the reporter didn’t even look back at me. Emily squeezed again. “Oh my god,” I shrieked, clapping a hand over my mouth. “It’s the Fresh Prince!” I pointed to Will Smith, interviewing with a different reporter. The camera pointed away from us just long enough to escape. I smiled at her, then finally asked, “Honey, for real though, who am I wearing? What does that mean?” I guess she loved that question.

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