Laura Winters’s All of Me, which opened Tuesday in a New Group production at Off Broadways Pershing Signature Signature Center, boasts one of the most original meet-cutes in rom-com history. Lucy (Madison Ferris) and Alfonso (Danny J. Gomez) meet in the parking lot of a medical center and instantly seem to hit it off. The fact that they are both operating wheelchairs and their witty banter is filtered through text-to-speech devices actually enhances the flirtatiousness of their exchanges, as well as the initial misunderstandings.

Ferris, memorable for her role as Laura Wingfield opposite Sally Field in Sam Gold’s 2017 Broadway revival of The Glass Menagerie, is completely captivating as Lucy, a feisty and expressive young woman who recognizes how her muscular dystrophy is gradually robbing her of so many things others easily take for granted. Her gradual physical decline, as well as the financial cost of her treatment and support devices, is taking a toll on her working-class family in Schenectady, New York. She lives at home with her divorced mom (Kyra Sedgwick), who’s increasingly complaining of back pain from lifting Lucy into and out of bed, as well as her younger sister, Jackie (Lily Mae Harrington), and Jackie’s ne’er-do-well fiancé, Moose (Brian Furey Morabito).

All of Me marks a striking departure from most rom-coms in its forthright depiction of economic and class issues — especially the contrast between Lucy’s budget-strapped predicament and that of Alfonso, a college-educated guy whose wealthy family has set him up with a fully equipped house with an aide who assists him in daily tasks. The contrast is reinforced by an awkward conversation between Lucy’s mom and Alfonso’s (Florencia Lozano), a jet-setting Argentinian native who seems completely oblivious to how different their circumstances are. Even their experience of raising disabled children diverges: Alfonso was paralyzed at six months old in an accident that damaged his vocal cords, while Lucy’s MD began emerging at 16 when she had begun singing in concerts all around the tri-state area.

Sedgwick’s Connie is understandably dismissive of self-help bromides, like the ubiquitous Emily Perl Kingsley essay “Welcome to Holland,” about how parents should reorient their expectations when raising a disabled child, accepting that their plane has been diverted to an alternate vacation destination. “I mean, my plane did land in Italy, right?” she tells Alfonso’s mom with mounting frustration. “And I lived there for sixteen years until one day, I’m, ya know, having pasta when some thugs show up throw me in the back of a van, and twelve hours later dump me in a tulip field and say ‘welcome to Holland, bitch!’ So, it’s, it’s just different.”

Winters sketches her characters in broad but empathetic strokes, keeping the emphasis on Lucy and her feelings of frustration and longing for the life she might have had. Lucy has completely given up her singing ambitions, for instance, as her voice no longer allows her to articulate much more than vowels. That leads to conflicts with her mom, who doesn’t understand why she has adopted her vocal device so completely, as well as her sister, who’s lined up a singing gig for herself though she knows Lucy always had the stronger voice. Her default mode now seems to be a hyper-sarcasm that can edge into snark or outright cruelty. But you can see Lucy wrestling with her dependency, all too aware of the burden on her mom, taking on side gigs to support them, as well as Jackie and Moose, who have postponed setting up their own home both for economic reasons and to lend a hand for Lucy’s care.

Lucy’s idea to escape this cycle, to give her and her family a leg up, is to sell her unneeded pain medication on the black market — which leads to a dramatic climax on Jackie’s wedding day that feels artificial and false on way too many levels. It’s a shame because much of Winters’s plot unfolds with an admirable naturalism and grounding in real-world family dynamics. Director Ashley Brooke Monroe elicits performances that have the kind of energy and surface depth of modern single-camera comedies — Harrington is particularly strong as the older sibling who both understands and resents how her younger sister has claimed more of her mom’s attention. Oddly enough, the weakest link is Sedgwick — who seems far too spry, both physically and vocally, for a character who on paper is increasingly worn down by the sheer weight of her challenges. (Her use of a cane in late scenes seems more like an affectation than a real need.)

When the focus is on Lucy and Alfonso, though, the show’s occasional missteps melt away. Ferris flashes a coquettish charm that is genuinely sexy, and it’s matched by Gomez and his wide-eyed boyishness. They circle each other in their wheeled devices with the passion of tango dancers, swooping closer for kisses that seem genuine in both their affection and sensual hunger. Their courtship also provides a stark reminder about how seldom we see disabled characters on stage and screen, and how when we do their lives tend to be defined almost exclusively by their challenges rather than the full scope of their humanity (including their sexuality). Winters’s major achievement here is to create a couple who seem perfect for each other, and not just because of their shared circumstances.