Most people find it hard to be in a relationship, but I remember a lady who didn’t. She was always perfectly fine with her boyfriend. Of course, it was easy for her since he was almost perfect.

He looked like her man, her ideal: built like an athlete — not a top athlete, though — with the hair of a magazine underwear model and a face that was childishly innocent, gallantly charming, and manly rough, all at the same time. He also was her man from the inside. He was caring and compassionate for others. He was sensible to the point of crying at the movies. He had wits and his mood was always suitably tempered, making him a great conversational partner. Plus, he had a great sense of humor and a contagious laughter; especially for her, since they both laughed at the same things, in unison, and with the same loudness.

Yet, he was –almost– perfect. His one defect was a silly one: his name always kept changing. It varied more than his hairstyle. One day his name started with J, the next with E; a month later it began with D, then ended with N the week after. Nonetheless, he remained fairly the same. Maybe a feature or two of his changed a little — the usual that time affects. But he still had his same taste for music, his same love for her, and his same adorable, catching laughter.

She had some trouble keeping track of the names at times. She didn’t try too hard, though. It was his self that mattered to her anyway, not how he was called. She developed a little trick to save herself the hassle of confusing names.

“Oh, my darling…”. Then blank. She could give no further references.

After all, together they were perfect, despite names.