One evening after we put the kids to bed, Kristen approached me with a smile, wrapped me in a hug and asked me to come downstairs to her office. First she allowed me to complete my 8:30 p.m. routine, fully aware of how essential it is to my peace of mind: circle the downstairs, note which lights are on, and stare out the front window, visually lining up the neighbors’ rooftops. I finally joined her at her desk, where she sat at the computer, ready to administer an online Asperger’s evaluation.

Looking somehow clinical in her pajamas, Kristen instructed me to answer the questions honestly. No problem, since I’m honest to a fault when I choose to speak to people. For the next two hours, she led me through questions that at times had us both laughing with recognition:

• Do you often talk about your special interests whether or not others seem interested? Who’s not interested in cleaning-product slogans?

• Do you rock back and forth or side to side for comfort, to calm yourself, when excited or overstimulated? Where’s the hidden camera?

• Do you get frustrated if you can’t sit in your favorite seat? Friendships have ended over this.

And on it went.

During the years Kristen and I dated, I was on my best behavior. When I slipped, she seemed to find my eccentricity endearing. I remember her laughter upon discovering dozens of pictures I had taken of myself to see what I might look like to other people at any given moment: me watching TV; me about to sneeze; me on the toilet, looking pensive.