Maya

If I could see myself with anyone today, it would be Maya. I'm not sure whether or not she feels the same way about me, although I kind of suspect she does. But we are freakishly alike. We love all the same things and hate all the same people. We care very deeply about one another. And the sexual compatibility is there, sometimes with a zing.

We tease each other and pick out presents for each other at the fleamarket or history festivals. We've been known to provide vibrator recommendations or throw sex toys into care packages. And then there was the night we meant to go to an Easter vigil and didn't.

Why am I not with Maya? It's not a case of J. Alfred Prufrock, at least not on my part. It's that I grew up in the mountains, and she grew up by the sea, and we've both returned to our hometowns and neither one of us wants to budge. I need my sunny summers, and she needs her warm winters.

Still, I always think, if I think about finding someone and settling down, that it would be Maya. We would have a charming, quaint little life, teasing each other, making it work out. We would be poor as churchmice but happy. We would have a small house with a big kitchen, a yard for her dog and a lanai for my cat. We would snuggle together on the couch, watch silly television shows. I would make her eggs in the morning and she would make me polenta at night. We would host book club and board game night, and we would be happy.

Of course, that's not how it works out in the end. Because I love the mountains and she loves the sea, and as much as we care for each other, the sunshine isn't something I'm giving up for anyone in the world.