Mr. Perfect, Found

I went on a date last night. He was absolutely perfect! Smart, funny, good-looking, witty, even smelled good. We talked for hours, smiling, drinking, casually touching arms now and then. He’s a med student with big plans to open a free clinic as soon as he’s licensed. He loves his mom and apple pie and outdoor concerts. We talked at length about literature and books and he wanted to know every detail of my silly quest to go back to school at age twenty-seven, making it seem much more important than it actually is. He maintained eye contact-—those beautiful baby blue eyes—-and never once let them wander to the much younger, much more drunk and cleavaged sorority girls that entered stage right about halfway through the night. He listened and asked and remembered and related. He got the door, paid the bill, walked me in and not once did he try to advance upon me, a perfect gentleman to the end. He is, in a word, perfect.

So why, if he’s so perfect, did I spend the whole night wondering what you were doing, when I’d get to hear your voice again, slip into your arms, forget all about Mr. Handsomedoctorperfect and just be me with you, you and me?