Andy never asks to pop my zits. He cringes when I reach for his zits. He doesn't tweeze his hairs obsessively. He lets his eyebrows meet.

I worry that we'll have to separate; I want someone who understands me.

When I get home, he greets me with a big grin on his face. And he says, "Look, I saved something for you," and he takes me to the bathroom, to the sink, to his fresh-got pile of ear wax.

"I thought you'd like this," he says, "Can you believe how much I found?"