Flickering light from a votive candle shines through a beer-filled pint glass, casting a honey-golden light on a woman’s face. She thoughtfully caresses the slightly raised ink logo on the glass. The cold condensation on the glass’s exterior leaves her fingers wet. She dries them on a napkin printed with the slogan of her favorite liqueur. A man walks up to her table and asks her if he may sit for a drink. She checks the wall clock with its cheering message for the city’s baseball team. She has a train to catch; she doesn’t have time. But she likes the man’s cavalier attitude and his confidence. She likes the way his eyes shine, lit by the candle. She decides to take a chance and writes her phone number on the inside of a pack of matches promoting the bar in which they sit. She hands it to him and leaves. Years later, that matchbook lies under glass, ink as bright as the day it was printed, affixed to a marriage certificate. They return to the bar every year to throw one back on their anniversary.