38 – One Kiss, Two Truths

Like every couple, my husband and I have that story—the one you tell when people ask how it all began. It’s funny and romantic—and even comes with a happy ending.

You want to hear it too?

All right, then.

We met in 2009—like so many couples of our generation—online. He was preparing for an internship in Germany and wanted to make a few contacts ahead of time. Within eight weeks of chatting, I was already entirely under his spell—his charm, his wit, his smartness. When he finally gave me his new address, I googled it. My heart skipped, my breath caught, and mild paranoia kicked in. The man was moving into the parallel street to mine!

It felt like a movie—I just wasn’t sure yet whether it would turn out to be a romantic comedy or a low-budget remake of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

When he arrived in Germany, I was on holiday with my best friend—and heart emojis in my eyes. He was so eager to meet that he insisted on picking me up at the train station the moment I got back. Not exactly my dream scenario for a first meeting—but there was no stopping him. So I took a nine-hour Deutsche Bahn ride home—in pink stilettos, a little black dress, 25 kilos of hand luggage, and a delicate sheen of sweat from sprinting between platforms. With blisters on my feet and butterflies in my stomach, I was ready for anything—except the one. So far, my husband and I agree on that part of the story. What happened next, however, depends entirely on who’s telling it.

My version: He drove me home and kissed me at my door—because, well, that’s what Frenchmen do.

His version: I stood there, looking at him with expectant eyes, lips slightly parted, and kissed him—because what woman with a functioning libido and a trace of romantic fantasy could resist a Frenchman with an accent, amber eyes, and a smile like crème brûlée?

Years later, as I was lying next to Leif—the poly guy with the long hair—he looked at me and said: “I was completely swept away when you suddenly kissed me.”

And I actually replied: “Please don’t tell my husband—he'll think he’s been right for over a decade and a half.”

A quick fact-check in my head, however, suggested the mister might be right.

Because almost every date in recent months that ended in a kiss—had started with me. After all, a kiss says more than a thousand words—and I’ve always wanted to know right away whether there was something there… or whether I should just go home and kiss my husband instead. From that point on, our story aligns again.

I played hard to get for two weeks—because I was sure he’d go back to France after six months and leave me heartbroken. That little delay is also why, fifteen years later, I still rarely get flowers: Back then, a bouquet ended up in the trash after I cancelled one date. It was my bestie who finally shoved me toward him and said: “Stop letting your fear decide—let your heart.”

Our first romantic outing?

The holy trinity of German bureaucracy: pension office, health insurance, and the bank. Our relationship passed its first stress test before it even began. Two weeks later, he moved in. A year and a half later, as he likes to say, he exported me.

And they lived happily ever after—until they opened their marriage and their hearts.

Then they became even happier—and more satisfied. Because they realized: the happy ending was just the beginning.