My partner and I are perfect matches for each other.

Old doors fit their frames because they have been opening and closing in the same place for fifty years. New ones fit because somebody measured. Both count as fitting.

Most matches are the first kind. The edges wear into each other. You learn how they take criticism, they learn which mornings to leave you alone, until the thing swings shut without a sound.

Called perfect at the start, the word means chemistry. Called perfect after twenty years, it means work that has become invisible.

Whatever fits easily between the two of you now was, at some point, adjusted.