Previously in this series: If Kristen Stewart were your girlfriend.

If Stanley Tucci were your boyfriend, he would never bother you about the fact that you own two clearly well-worn copies of both The Devil Wears Prada and Julie and Julia. If he knew you were going to have a particularly hard day at work, he’d call out “Gird your loins” after you as you left the apartment, because he would know how much that would mean to you.

If Stanley Tucci were your boyfriend, your apartment would redecorate itself in only the finest and most luxurious of fabrics. The predominant colors would be Nantucket blue, slate grey, and the color of the sea before a storm.

If Stanley Tucci were your boyfriend, it would always be the second week of fall. The sun would never set before 8pm, but you would never sweat again.

If Stanley Tucci were your boyfriend, your relationship would be two-thirds what he and Patricia Clarkson had in Easy A, and one-third what he and Meryl Streep had in Julie and Julia.

If Stanley Tucci were your boyfriend, he would occasionally turn to you, smile warmly, and call you “Champ,” while wearing a scarf.

He would also call you “Sport.” You would find it endearing and waggish and not in the least patronizing.

If Stanley Tucci were your boyfriend, the two of you would go dancing, but he’d never make a big deal out of it.

If Stanley Tucci were your boyfriend, your dad would refer to him genially as “The Tooch.” “Come to the house this weekend, and bring The Tooch with you.”

If Stanley Tucci were your boyfriend, you would own a good cheese knife. Nothing pretentious. You wouldn’t need a whole set. Just one. But it would be perfect, and you would never have trouble sliding Camembert pieces off of it. You would be the kind of person who invests in small, good, useful things. You would treat yourself with compassion, and you would never eat Cheetos in the shower.

If Stanley Tucci were your boyfriend, he would make pots of red sauce on the weekends, and make you taste all of them. He wouldn’t Bogart the kitchen, either, and he’d be more than just complimentary about your own (inevitably inferior) attempts at cooking. “No, it was extraordinary,” he’d insist after cleaning his plate. “Just extraordinary.” And there would be a light in his eyes that would let you believe him.

If Stanley Tucci were your boyfriend, Nora Ephron would still be alive somehow. She would have dinner with the two of you at least three nights a week.

If Stanley Tucci were your boyfriend, every single one of your friends would act like the guys on Friends did while Monica was dating Richard. “Your boyfriend is the coolest,” they’d tell you. You’d have to ask them to go do something else once in a while so the two of you could actually get some time to yourselves. “I’m sorry about those guys,” you’d say to Stanley Tucci, while he’d look intently at you and say “Don’t ever apologize to me on behalf of the people who love you.”

If Stanley Tucci were your boyfriend, you would instantly become the kind of person who takes long, luxurious baths in a clean, bone-white tub.

If Stanley Tucci were your boyfriend, he would make excuses to run out and pick up a paper and buy you breakfast while he was out. “It’s nothing,” he’d say if you protested. “I don’t even remember how much it cost. I threw away the receipt. Stop asking.” If Stanley Tucci were your boyfriend, he would wear perfectly cut waffle-print shirts just while drinking coffee at your kitchen table, but your life together would be more meaningful than a collection of expensive fabrics and bougie breakfast foods. Your life together would be more meaningful than your life before.