He's perfect. Tall, dark, handsome. A brilliant mind. He is the perfect boyfriend.
And yet, I . . . No, I can't think that way.
My parents love him. Every girl on campus stares in green-eyed envy when we walk hand in hand. He opens doors for me, pulls out chairs. He has the perfect smile, even white teeth. We are planning to go to Yale next year for law school. Together. And then we'll get married, have our own law firm, we'll be partners. It will be perfect. He'll manage the firm, I'll handle the clients. I can already see him, martini in hand, glad handing all of our colleagues. He's great in social situations.
I just wish . . . No, no, he's perfect.
Am I?
She's a problem. She's loud-mouthed, pushy. She can't be controlled. She sits next to me in my poly sci class. She wears Doc Martins and smokes Camel unfiltereds. She asks lots of questions, most of which can't be answered. She insists on taking me to lunch and asking me the same questions. I can't answer them either. She plans to go to the Peace Corps, then to law school to work for the ACLU.
And I . . . No, no, back to him.
Our life will be perfect. I'll work with him in our firm for a few years, then take some time off to have kids. I'll stay home with them for a couple of years and then we'll hire a nanny to look after them while I go back to work a few afternoons a week. We'll have two, a boy and a girl. They'll be perfect little reflections of us. They'll go to the right grammar schools, which will lead to a great prep school and I'll be home in time to get them to and from soccer practice and ballet rehearsal and . . .
She won't leave me alone. She takes me out to a bar. I never drink, so why am I drinking with her? I'm starting to feel tipsy and she reaches out to get my attention, make a point. I can't understand what she's saying. She touches my arm and suddenly, I'm kissing her. And it's good. No, better than good, it's amazing. And she's kissing me back. She takes me back to her place and we . . .
What the hell did I do? I can't tell him. It will ruin our whole . . . But I can't stop thinking of her. Her voice, mind, questions, lips, her body. Oh God, what am I doing? She is all wrong!
He is perfect. I have to do what is right for our life. I have to stop thinking about her. But I can't. Every time I close my eyes, I see her naked in front of me. Every time he touches me, kisses me, it's her hands I feel, her lips I kiss. I try to block her out, focus on our perfect future together, but I find myself thinking of nothing but her. Imperfect her, with her tangled blonde hair, her loud opinions, her lips which taste of cigarettes. Her breasts, her hands her . . . Stop!
I can't.
I am not perfect.
She is not perfect.
But she is who I need.