The Perfect Woman

A casual glance. 

Back to the task at hand.

My eyes slip to her face and I force them back to the page.

Unruly things!

Perhaps it is her. There is something about her that draws the eye. What could it be?

Her eyes? Those opalescent orbs, set deep in mascara pools of reflected midnight, adrift on the pale ivory lake of her skin?

It can't be. As her gaze dips to the screen in front of her, and those enamoring gems retreat beneath the lash, the haunting pull remains.

She turns her head , whatever has appeared on her laptop screen intensifying her gaze.

Perhaps its her hair, falling in waves like a soft velvet curtain, accentuating the jawline sloping gently from ear to chin like a soft, ripe peach.

No. I'm simply trying to pin detail on the ethereal. Maybe the pull comes not from her face itself, but her expression and mannerism? The hint at a smile, the intense focus, the... but no, these are commonplace and found on every face in the room. Yet she remains the sole object of my attention.

Could it be that my search is in vain? Yes, I see now that it is not simply an underlying feature or manner that continually draws my eye, but rather the lack of flaw.

To my eye, she is perfect. The culmination of the desirable, partially hidden behind a computer screen, containing nothing but appeal.

Yet this is folly, for certainly, she is not perfect. The perfect match, my “hearts desire,” does not exist. This woman merely resembles her. If I were to look longer, I would find that she is too short, or has some annoying way of referencing hair products in everyday conversation, or some other equally fatal flaw.

And so, perfect one, continue on in anonymity. Let hope remain, while I slip out.

Call me a coward, but do not fault me, for hope is a cherished friend, and I seek his well-being before my own.