“Closest friend,” he repeats, as if he’s got all the time in the world to ponder my statement. “I’d be mortified if those were the words my Match used to describe me.” “Fine,” I say through clenched teeth. “Tell me about your Match. What do you love about her?” That’s assuming he has a wife. Considering his looks—the kind of handsome that’s hard to stare at—I’d say yes, but his personality is very off-putting. His smile fades into something sadder. “She has beautiful eyes,” he says softly, like he’s lost to memory. “They’re brown and green and amber, like every color of every season. I’ve
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