Last fall, I had drinks with Kevin, a sensuous though somewhat slippery restaurateur I briefly dated years back in New York. We talked about our latest love interests and while I went on ecstatically about my man’s creativity, his devilish wit, the sexy way his lip curled when he smiled, Kevin was a bit ho hum about his new lady friend.

“She’s pretty,” he said. “We have similar backgrounds, our working lives are compatible.” With a casual shrug of his shoulders, he concluded, “she fits.”

Kevin said nothing about love, intimacy or how his loins stirred when his gal walked into the room. He only said she fits.

Before Ms. Fits, Kevin dated an iron-willed wild child who he fought and made up with in deliciously seductive turns. Kevin’s mild-mannered persona often balked at the sparks of behavior thrown off by this lovely ball of fire. And unlike Ms. Fits’ quieter life as a caterer, Wild Child’s skyrocketing success as a playwright gave Kevin’s competitive streak a run for its money. The boy was hooked. I never quite understood what had happened to make him quit the longest, most invigorating relationship he seemed ever to have had. All he told me was how it “stopped working,” and how, at present, this new gal “fit.”

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Last-modified: 2021-02-24 (水) 01:22:13 (705d)