Remember me? I came wearing a “bootylicious” promise up front, awe-struck as you stomped colossus-like over mountains of wrapping paper to point me nose first at the saleswoman who pronounced us “a perfect match”; you whispering “maybe this is as good as it gets” as we agreed to wear each other down to fit — years of squelching tears with rictus smiles ahead — because we both know how it ends when you bend to keep one “worth the pain”: never meeting, never letting go, holding on to the clickety-clack togetherness of a date we tired into believing was fate.