"The trick," Patrick told me, "is to find someone who complements you."

 

My throat produced a familiar noise, something like a giggle that only comes about when you're trying not to cry. "Yes, you really don't compliment me often enough. I'll feel much better if you tell me I'm pretty."

 

"Of course you're pretty, but that's not what I'm talking about." The off-handed compliment made my heart soar. "What I mean is that if you look for someone who's identical to you, there are too many sames." To illustrate his point, he withdrew his fingers from mine, only to press his fingertips against my fingertips so they exerted some pressure. "When someone's the same as you, all the sticky-outy parts meet up and you deflect each other. You see what I'm saying?"

 

"Yes." It suddenly occurred to me that this might be a break-up conversation, which I don't think I could have handled on a first date.

 

"But when you meet a person who complements you-and I don't mean this in a sexual sense-all the sticky-outy parts on you correspond to all the curvy-inny parts on them." Patrick brushed his fingertips down a touch until his were between mine. Our fingers no longer deflected one another. Now, they snuggled in, fingers woven between fingers, until we were holding hands again. "You see? When people complement each other, they fit together so easily."

 

Was he talking about us? I didn't want to ask, but it was too early on. Instead, I sat perfectly still, gazing at our interwoven fingers as though they might open to reveal a crystal ball. Was that my future cradled in the sweating palms of our hands? I had my doubts, but I could so easily be swayed.