By some, he’d be con­sid­ered a catch, but only because he fol­lows the rit­u­als of rela­tion­ships (even if it is with­out an appre­ci­a­tion for them), and is exceed­ing­ly nor­mal, some­thing more and more uncom­mon when com­bined with the qual­i­ty of being sin­gle as we get old­er.

He has a good heart. This fact becomes par­tic­u­lar­ly clear by his fourth domes­tic beer, which he drinks because he can’t tell much of a dif­fer­ence between brands and it’s cheap­er than import­ed; though he’ll hap­pi­ly stock his fridge with Corona when his friends come over. The alco­hol makes him slop­py, but nev­er abu­sive or acer­bic.

Sitting just out­side the main­stream is his taste in music. It’s nei­ther eclec­tic, nor par­tic­u­lar­ly inter­est­ing. If one of his favourite bands hap­pened to have a sleep­er hit, he would­n’t care, or even notice.

There’s an even­ness in his deme­nour that makes you won­der whether he can tru­ly feel joy. If he tastes the same thing as you do when bit­ing into a piece of medi­um-rare steak, or if he real­ly appre­ci­ates her.

But he treats her well, and that’s all that mat­ters. Maybe not as well as you did, but it’s good enough to make her for­get.

When she’s with him, she knows what she was nev­er sure of with you. He’s uncom­plex, yet so unlike your­self that you can’t fig­ure out what it is about him.

Their hap­pi­ness is based on some­thing you were nev­er able to share with her. You’ll spend your whole life won­der­ing what that is, and he’ll nev­er know how lucky he is.