IT began like many other romances: an introduction at a party. She and I slid quickly into an easy banter, drifting from the food table to the bar to the couch, smiling and laughing, the sparks between us practically visible. Anyone could see we were falling for each other. There was just one thing: neither of us was a lesbian.

I’ve always been a sucker for someone who could make me laugh. This time, though, it wasn’t so much that she was hilarious, which she was. It was something about the two of us together.

We had chemistry — a chemistry that wrapped a tight nest around us and kept everyone else out. By the end of the night, we had managed to annoy and alienate pretty much everyone present. It was the beginning of our platonic love affair.

Each in our mid-20s and relatively new to San Francisco, she and I soon entered the “we” stage, calling each other to say, “What should we do this weekend?” never “What are you doing?” She became my permanent date to parties and on nights out, my surrogate spouse, and I hers.