Must love the beach.
Must know how to cook.
Must own a decent camera.
Fine. That should be easy.

Must watch K-dramas,
sit through period films,
know his Greek mythology.
Now we’re narrowing it down.

Must respect the capybara.
This is important.
I will not elaborate.
Put a check beside it.

Must eat cucumber slices
with crushed spicy Cheetos
without asking me once
what is wrong with me.

Must be good at game nights.
Better than me, preferably.
I am tired of losing
before the snacks run out.

Must know when to compete,
when to let me bluff,
and when to look across the table
and say, “Trust me.”

There.

Impossible enough.

Then you showed up
with a camera around your neck
and something you cooked
because apparently you cook too.

Fine.

I added Greek mythology.
You knew more than I did.
I mentioned the Trojan War.
You had opinions.

I added K-dramas.
You asked what I was watching.
I said period films.
You named three.

This was getting annoying.

So, capybaras.

You looked at one
sleeping beside a crocodile
and said, “That’s basically you.”
I chose not to be offended.

Then came game night.

You pulled out the chair
beside you and asked,
“You’re with me, right?”

We lost.

Badly.

You blamed the cards.
I blamed you.
We demanded a rematch.

I went home that night
and made another list.

Must hate the beach.
Must burn rice.
Must take terrible pictures.
Must think Zeus is a planet.

Must distrust capybaras.
Must hate game nights.
Must live somewhere inconvenient,
preferably three flights away.

You found the list.

Read every line.

“This is oddly specific.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“I know.”

You handed it back,
then pointed at the last page.
“So, are we partners
next game night or not?”

I folded the list
and put it in my pocket.

“Obviously.”