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The other night, I met a girl who reminded me of you," my friend Elizabeth said.

It was a steamy Saturday afternoon in May, and I was rushing down a narrow Greenwich Village street to buy flowers for my wedding. I never thought I'd marry, even before I fell in love with a female intern at my first job in New York.

On the one-year anniversary of our first date, a little tipsy after dinner, I proposed.

Just as I was starting to feel like I had my mojo back, I ran into Michael, an old friend of my sister's, on a subway platform.

He was broad shouldered, big eyed, and tall, his hair a thatch of floppy blondness. When Michael arrived, he handed me a bag of chocolate-chip cookies.

We recycled, cooked together, rescued kittens, traveled all over, and found lots and lots of time for sex. By contrast, my relationships with men had always left me feeling like a clich├ęd version of myself--naggy, competitive, and quick to complain about how "emotionally unavailable" they were.

I was dismissive of "typical couples" with their public bickering.

We chatted, and as I was leaving, I squeezed his arm and said I hoped our paths would cross again. "These are for Skuli," he said, pronouncing my son's odd Icelandic name perfectly.