“Hmm, okay, stop me when I get close,” I say, taking a sip of wine. We both pretend to study the art as I begin rattling off the potential snags to their relationship. “You’re gay. She’s gay. She likes cats. You’re a dog person. Opposing political views. One of you likes pineapple on your pizza, and the other thinks fruit on pizza’s an aberration. She wants to summer in East Hampton, you in Southampton. You have a porn addiction. You have different tastes in china patterns. She falls asleep to whale noises, but you like silence and a night-light. There’s someone else—”
