How Unique We Are

My wife and I were watching a tv show tonight, in which one woman takes the place of another who has just died. The imposter goes to the dead girl’s apartment and her boyfriend unexpectedly returns to the apartment and, of course, they make love madly. The boyfriend seems to sense very vaguely that there is something new here, but he shows no hesitation in believing that this is the same woman he has been making love to. (This is not entirely new — there are instances of “mistaken identity” in Shakespeare too.)

Is this ridiculous, or what? Once we have established a relationship to a spouse — to this person — and have made love over the years, is there any way you wouldn‘t know when the one you were making love to was a different person? Even if the person was an identical physical match. Even though it is true that the way we make love changes over time. Not in a million years could you find another woman in the world who could convince me during lovemaking that she was my wife.

How unique we are, in so many ways. Once we really get to know a person, especially in deep physical intimacy, that uniqueness is so, so clear. (It is so sad, of course, that many people make love to others without knowing them at all. Their problem would be even remembering much about the different people they have copulated with.)


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