A little twist for today, a whimsical piece of fiction or possibly not. For it is said that all fiction is biographical in nature. To be perfectly honest, no pun intended, the words are mine, though Haruki Murakami created the original theme in the early 1990’s.
The Perfect Girl
Yesterday, on a clear warm evening while strolling through the Sunday walking market I passed the perfect girl. I can’t say if she were beautiful or not, I don’t know. I can’t say that she dressed like a fashion model, wearing the trendy styles of today, because her clothes were rather plain. Her hair was not remarkable either. In fact, I don’t think she was a girl at all, but a woman in her late forties or early fifties, I couldn’t rightly say.
I suppose everyone has his or her own image of the perfect girl. Another man might find long blond hair, clear blue eyes and nice breasts attractive, or a dark haired women that is tall and slim. Maybe you know someone who has been taken in by a mousey little thing sitting quietly in a bookstore reading a magazine. I was once attracted to a woman simply because she had delicate long fingers that seemed to accentuate the sensual essence of her being. I found myself staring longer than social etiquette would suggest until our eyes turned away from each other, in a perfect shyness between perfect strangers.
In this particular case at the Sunday walking market I liked the delicate smoothness of her stride, the way she hovered weightlessly over the ground like an angel. There was a slight mischief in her eyes and a sparkle to her voice that I could hear only in my imagination. She seemed to float over the earth with a graceful motion that was sexually ignited, feminine and efficient at the same time. I hardly remember anything else about her. Her hair was dark but I can’t recall the shape of her nose or even if she had a nose. I don’t recall if she were wearing a dress or pants, or what color shoes she had on. I simply can’t recall. When I returned to the hotel I told the travel agent that I had just seen the perfect girl.
The travel agent asked, “What did I do? Did I say hello, did I talk to her, and did I follow to see where she might be heading?
“No.”
I just passed her on the street and thought to myself, there goes the perfect girl for me. Although later I fantasized in my mind that I could have stopped her in her tracks and said something spontaneous and witty. But I couldn’t think of anything spontaneous or witty at the time. I was mesmerized by the fact that I saw the perfect girl and I couldn’t do anything about it. I suppose I could have said hello, you are the perfect girl for me. Would you like to have a cup of coffee, or a cocktail? That might lead to dinner where the conversation would turn to the serendipity of us walking down the same street, at the same time, in the same market, in Chiang Mai.
We would discuss our lives over a slowly cooked meal and fall into a perfect love. We would be limited only by our uncertainties and the boundaries we set for ourselves -- and our own lack of freedom. I had lots of ideas: burning Thai incense, lighting scented candles and sneaking peeps of her coco tinted skin under one of my silk white shirts. We would lie next to each other in bed lingering forever into each other’s eyes. We would speak in lofty earth tones, how everything is open for interpretation, how each one of us perceives things in a different way, through a different lens, defined by our experiences, beliefs, and priorities. We would fall in love and acknowledge our commonalities and differences. Then we would make love and be covered in a cold sweat by the time the morning sun would wink in shades of pink and yellow through the embodied curtains of the hotel room.
I should have stopped her and said something cleaver. Do you know of a bike shop nearby? Maybe that would have worked if I were walking alongside my bike, but I wasn’t. Excuse me; do you know a good Thai restaurant in the neighborhood? To glib, there were dozens of fine street vendors all within eyesight. Even now I cannot think of anything that would have worked. Maybe I should have resorted to the truth. Excuse me, you are the perfect girl for me, do you have time to fall in love?
And, she would respond, “Yes I do, and you are the perfect man for me”. You look exactly the way I pictured you in all of my dreams”.
Because we were the perfect lovers we were playful, curious, and experimental. We wanted to investigate this cosmic miracle of our meeting a bit further. Let’s leave each other, go our separate ways, find another, and test the perfectness of our being together. If we truly were perfect for each other, in a perfect world, then we would no doubt meet again, on a perfect day.
This was all played out in my mind before her silhouette faded to a soft warm gray in the distance. I knew it would end like this and that it would only be perfect if we were to meet again. The memory of this perfect woman slowly fades from my mind with each passing hour. We had our chance and let it go – how sad – yet perfect. For each day I wake up in the morning and think to myself, is today the day that I will meet the perfect girl -- again?
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