There were four of them. Four youngish, single females, none of whom were unattractive, and all of whom were conspicuously on and in the market. Cindy was probably the oldest of the four, blonde and outgoing, on the stout side, ruddy, brash, an ass-kicker but not a ball-breaker. If I was out of the closet at the time, she would have been the girl I had drinks with over harsh and judgmental gossip.

Then there was Becky. Tall and active, not one to use makeup, killer smile, artsy, crazy shrub-hair. If I was out of the closet at the time, Becky would have been the one I went to art shows and dropped the artists names with.

I am a bit fuzzy on the third girl's name. I think it was Jennifer. She was the conventionally pretty one. If I was out of the closet at the time, we probably would not have been close.

The fourth girl's name was Jeung, pronounced, as she probably says to this day, "Like jungle, but without the L." The four of them together were a segment from Sesame Street's "one of these things was not like the other" series, and Jeung was one of these things. The other three, all attractive in their own way and to their own niche, were brimming with social skills. Jeung was not. She dressed for comfort, and only for comfort. Her features were obscured behind glasses the size of saucers. Nothing could really be said about her hair, bad or good, other than that she seemed to get it cut on occassion. If I was out of the closet at the time, I probably would have pitied her. I was not, so I married her.

You see, I was also one of these things. I had no social skills. I had no thought of marrying, or indeed of romance at all. It caught me flat-footed when, as we were proffering Watchtowers on Galway Dr. at dusk, Jeung said, "I think I would like to get to know you better." After my synapses realized what she was saying, which took a moment, the information being of an entirely alien sort, I assented to her acquiring that knowledge.

I only bring up the beginning of this story, the middle and end of which are interesting in their own ways, because of a question my friend Lauren asked. For purpose of reference, Lauren is the Becky sort, art shows, etc.. I was advising her, as I do all of my many girlfriends when they have a breakup, to figure out what payoff she was getting from her old relationship, what purpose it served in her psyche, so she could avoid making any mistakes that were made again. "Well, what payoffs did you get when you were married?" she asked. Some version of the above story was my response. Although I have developed some astounding social skills and have more friendships than I can reasonably maintain, I am still one of those things. Jeung was a place where I could be unaware of that fact, and I hope I was such a place for her. At least I left her better than I found her. Over the course of our marriage, she got braces and contacts, learned that confort is not the only virtue in clothing, learned to do her hair less sensibly--I often did her perms myself--and, what is more miraculous, became confident. "This body is wasted on you!" she once yelled, in the nude, toward the end of our marriage. Indeed.

I hesitate to mention it, but Robert serves the same purpose for me that Jeung did. All the irritating things--most of the irritating things I do, he finds charming, and vice versa. Bystanders are astonished that we can tolerate each other. Just one of those things, I suppose.