He was perfectly strange, this stranger was. He was smart and elegant and courteous. He was different and complementary. We fit like jigsaw puzzle pieces. This stranger was perfect until I came to know him. But that’s what perfection is, isn’t it? It is picturesque and Hollywood until we begin to examine it. Like all models, it is bright and seductive, but when we finally gather the courage to look closely, we begin to see its pores and blemishes. Quick to judge, we assume either the worst or absolute perfection and that vision crowds our perception.
He is rash, he is fickle; he is passionate and shy. He is lazy and risky and arrogant. He is loving and a literary romantic. He is messy and artistic. I came to know him, and he is still perfect: perfectly human.