What mattered?, she wondered.

Did it matter that Mark was three inches taller than her, 5’11, which was the same height as her father? Or that he called cilantro “coriander?” Or that he was a fan of Liverpool?

He never worked out. Was that important? He wasn’t at all fat, but it was something she found peculiar since everyone else exercised, even his own brother. Everyone knew it was healthy to exercise. Yet he was not too concerned.

He was younger than his brother, but he seemed the older of the two if that helped? He was bald, but in a sweet way. He wore glasses with thick, black frames. They were rectangular in shape. Handsome, they suited him. He played bass and wrote very good lyrics that were structurally interesting. Or she thought so. They were all too often inspired by 17th and 18th-century plays and novels, always dark and usually, somehow, funny. Clever.

Her favorite was: Tie our hands to the railroad track / and twirl your wax mustache. The sound of it. The words “mustache” and “wax.” Or the image? She didn’t know what it was about the lines, but she liked them. Also: I’m wearing the clothes of my last victim. A great line inspired by how he described his costumeless-ness one Halloween to get into a costume-only party. That Halloween, he stood outside in the cold, hopping from one foot to the next, cupping his hands to blow them warm, wearing his regular jeans and button-down, and said: I’m wearing the clothes of my last victim.

After much prodding by her to write a song that wasn’t 1) completely depressing or 2) related to a play from ages ago that most people hadn’t read, didn’t want to read, or read only under requirement, he wrote her a song for their anniversary called: A Sorry, Sorry Song. In it he apologized for many heartfelt and hilarious things, including for instance, an apology for a singing about old plays and an apology for singing such a long-winded apology. So British, she thought. Annoying and also: very funny.

He it sang to her, sitting on the old blue Ikea couch he had back then. It made her both sad and happy. That he had written a song for her and also that the song was apology. She felt it might be saying something.

He wore an ill-fitting coat. But thankfully he, at some point, tossed out the v-neck cardigan sweater which was the worst color blue imaginable, too bright — glaring — a strange wardrobe choice, she had thought, for someone so unobtrusive. He met her dear friend Dean wearing that sweater, she remembered vividly, at the bar on Metropolitan.

Did it matter he was a professor of literature, that he went to Cambridge and other very fancy institutions and was writing a book about “the Absence of Things on Stages during the 16th and 17th centuries,” (or 17th and 18th?, she forgot), which would likely be published by Cambridge or Oxford? Or that he grew up in London, in the same house his parents hosted Christmas each year? That his room remained a shrine of sorts, untouched since childhood. Red Liverpool football wallpaper, if peeling in places, still lining the walls. He had friends who he had known since he was in primary school, something she envied: ties to youth, some barometer of self and past selves.

He was skillful at crosswords. She attributed this to the fact that his family played games of all sorts. Except on her first visit to London when she met them. That Christmas they didn’t play games at all, because, she found out only later, Mark had told them that she was afraid of games. It was in fact true, her being very shy, or at least socially anxious. Also: she worried about being found out. She didn’t know the things she should. Like the U.S. Presidents or the dates of the Civil War. Or who so and so was, what they did or said. Or the order of things, when this or that happened. Her mind could not be trusted on-demand. It chose when and where it would appear and what it would think about, with little regard for her.

He liked key lime pie and red velvet cupcakes, just like her, and often brought them home for her, but also actually also for himself because he always ended up eating half of them, of course. He wasn’t shy about taking the big half of whatever it was, which for some strange reason fundamentally upset her. How could he live with himself? But he did.

Once he surprised her with tickets to see Messi play, Argentina against Brazil, a friendly game at Giant’s Stadium. It was the largest crowd the stadium had ever seen. She loved Barca football and also Messi. Messi’s big floppy feet in those bright shoes. How he loved to play. That day Mark didn’t tell her where they were going but he did make sure she ate beforehand and wore the proper shoes. Probably as much for himself as for her — but also very much for her. He also brought her a sweater in his bag in case she got cold. He thought of things like that. That was important, wasn’t it?