It happened on the patio, on a rare clear Saturday night in Toronto.

Tara was waiting in the interminably long lineup for the ladies room, and I was sitting back in my lawn chair, enjoying being out at a bar past 11 p.m. without being glared at by a bunch of half-naked teenagers whose expressions yell "cougar" at every turn.

In other words, a typical night out at virtually any bar in Hamilton.

I liked this place. We'd been there before and it was quickly becoming a favourite of ours for its funky laid-backness and mid-20s to mid-40s crowd. Not to mention the really good rooftop patio and yummy goat cheese cheesecake.

Only one group of Hess-Village-type girls stuck out like sore thumbs, all wearing T-shirts as dresses, all heavy on the cleavage, the makeup and the squealing. Well, all except the ringleader who really took the cake.

I don't get this. I really don't. So she's got on this dress, all open in the back, dipped low enough to reveal the tiniest bit of crack. Which means no bra, no panties and a hemline that barely covers what would be her bikini line. Paired with a pair of leopard print stilettos, of course. Holy cow. What kind of skank do you have to be to leave the house in that getup?

In any case, I was trying hard to ignore the attention-seeking anticof the Hess girls to my left, so I glanced around the patio at, well, anything else. And that's when I spotted them.

She, a pretty blond with long, straight hair, wearing a short, swingy, navy-coloured dress with cap sleeves. He, also blond, sporting a grown-out buzz cut, fitted T-shirt, great arms and baggy cargo-ish pants.

They stared at each other as they talked, giddy smiles plastered on their faces. The kind of smiles that know. And it doesn't make you smile bigger necessarily, just with more of a glow. Because you feel it hit you, take over. And you can't help but smile. And the more he glows, the more you know. And you know he knows that you know. So you both know. Something's definitely going to happen.

Not only did they know, but surely anyone who glanced at them knew. They weren't touching in any way, she wasn't pulling any of the usual fake flirty moves like tossing her hair or licking her lips. No, this was for real. The stares, the smiles, the glow. They were just plain totally into each other.

Which I guess kind of sucked for the friend. The poor girl. Literally in the middle of them, standing there, not knowing what to do with herself.

She was cute in her own right, for sure. Small, brunette, sporting a funky striped skirt and asymmetrical tank. And had obviously ventured out with her friend that night, thinking they were just going to hit up a funky patio, have some drinks, like that.

I'm guessing she didn't know her friend was going to meet the love of her life that evening. Because otherwise she would've invited someone else along to keep her company while the two Blondies gazed unwavering into each other's eyes.

I've got to say, it was kind of cute, actually. After seeing so many people I know try to squeeze square pegs into round holes (stop being dirty, I don't mean it like that), it's kind of nice to see two people who are genuinely right into each other like that. Or so it seemed from my spot across the patio.

Anyway, Striped Skirt couldn't take a hint. She was clearly uncomfortable, glancing from her to him, back to her, hoping upon hope that one of them would as much as glance her way. Or even, perhaps, include her in the conversation.

Nope. So, still standing right in between them, she pulled out her BlackBerry and started scrolling, probably messaging every person on her list, begging one of them, anyone, to get down there to bail her out.

It's a tough situation, you see. Because, as Girl Blondie's friend, she couldn't leave. Depending on how far the lovebirds had progressed in their conversation, Girl Blondie would be obliged to accompany Striped Skirt, should she announce she wanted to go. And that would be a terrible thing -- to break this up when it's just getting started.

So as her friend, she had to stay and be uncomfortable. Which she did. I also noticed her greet another friend about half an hour later, which I guess meant the BlackBerry tactic worked.

Tara did eventually find her way back from the washroom, but neither of us found as much excitement as the Blondies, that night. Not sure many people would have.

snadler@thespec.com