Forty-two-year-old Boaz Quimby. I see him from the summer of 2017 until the summer of 2019. I believe Boaz is the man I’m going to marry and spend the rest of my life with. Mr. Right. My knight in shining armor. He’s going to pop the question to me and be my groom. This isn’t the case, though. No way. We bump into each other at Templeton Stadium, literally, not figuratively. Boaz is this beefy, bald, muscle-bound slab of beautiful man from Chicago. He works for a company called Seatz Unlimited and sells stadium seating, bleachers, goalposts, scoreboards, etc.. He’s in Templeton on business. It’s August of 2017 and he’s doing a pony show, attempting to sell high-end and luxury seating to the uppity-up owners of the stadium for four dozen box seats. Rumor has it that the sale isn’t going to
