On Seeing The 100% Perfect Boy One Beautiful April Morning

One beautiful April morning, on a narrow side street in Lima Ohio, I walk past the 100% perfect boy.

Tell you the truth, he's not that good looking. He doesn't stand out in any way. His clothes are nothing special. His hair slicked back with, what looks like, more hair gel than is healthy. But still I know from fifty yards away: he' s the 100% perfect boy for me. The moment I see him, there's a fluttering in my chest and my mouth goes dry.

The girls from glee club have their own particular favorite type of guy - one with muscles , say, or dark hair, or long fingers, or they're drawn for no reason to guys who play the guitar. I have my own preferences, of course. Sometimes in a restaurant I'll catch myself staring at the guy at the table next to mine because I like the shape of their eyes.

But no one can insist that this 100% perfect guy corresponded to some preconceived type. Much as I like eyes, I can't recall the shape of his - not even the color.

All I can remember for sure is that he was no great beauty.

"Yesterday on the street I pass the 100% perfect boy" I tell Rachel.

"Yeah?" she says "good looking?"

"A little but I can't really remember anything about him."

"Strange."

"Yeah. Strange."

"So" she says, already bored, "what did you do? Talk to him? Follow him?"

"No. Just passed him in the street."

He's walking east to west, and I west to east. It's a really nice April morning.

I wish I could talk to him. Half an hour would be plenty: Just ask him about himself, tell him about myself, and - what I'd really like to do - explain to him the complexities of fate that have led to our passing each other on a side street in Ohio on a beautiful April morning in 2010.

After talking, we'd go and drink coffee in the Lima Bean, maybe have lunch at Breadsticks; with any kind of luck we'd exchange numbers.

Potentiality knocks on the door of my heart.

Now the distance between us has narrowed to fifteen yards.

How can I approach him? What should I say?

"Excuse me. Do you think you could spare some time for a little conversation?"

Even in my head it sounds stupid. I'd sound like an insurance salesman. No, this is just ridiculous.

Maybe the simple truth would do.

"Hi there, you are the 100% perfect guy for me".

No, he wouldn't believe it. Or even if he did he may not want to talk to me. I don't even know if he's gay. For all I know he could be like one of those Neanderthals at McKinley. And if I found myself in that situation, I'd probably go to pieces. I'd never recover from the humiliation. Im sixteen, and that's what growing older is all about.

He stops outside a record shop and as I pass him a small, warm air mass touches my skin, and I catch the scent of raspberry. He wears a mustard cardigan, and in his right hand he holds a crisp white envelope lacking only a stamp. So; he's written someone a letter, maybe spent the whole night writing, to judge from the sleepy look in his eyes. The envelope could contain every secret he's ever had.

I stop and look at him for a few seconds before taking a deep breath and walking up to him.

"Excuse me" I start, catching the guys attention "can I ask you a question? I'm new here."

He smiles as me and holds out his hand to me.

"My names Blaine"

"Kurt"