A few days past September, I was sure about what I wanted. I could even paint a picture of the kind of life, the roses by my balcony, the color of my walls, the dress I would wear for my birthday, and the man who would pour me a glass of wine as we made dinner late at night.
I just knew it in my bones, he'd be tall, utterly delightful, with a smile that rivaled the stars. He would love wearing silk shirts, and he would have shorts for the summer. His face would be pretty but not so much for everyone else to stare at. He would know how to cook, and he would speak three languages. Gentleness would not be bargained and I would be in love with his voice, he would know how to sing and write, and he would be fervently in love with art.
This was merely scratching the surface; the list was endless. He would be strong and sensitive, a man among men yet with a tender heart. His presence would complement and enrich mine in ways that others would envy. And so, the list continued…
It had been a long time since a man looked my way, and this time I felt certain that whoever fell on my path would be the one. Surely, they had to be. While my friends were moving on, building homes, and starting families, I found myself clinging to the list of hopes and dreams, wondering when—or if—my turn would come.
But reality has a way of slapping one on the face. The red roses I longed for had withered in their season, and the dress I wanted was nowhere to be found, sold out. Yes, I had the bottle of wine, but the one missing piece was glaringly absent: where was the man?
It wasn't until later in July that I stumbled upon someone, though truth be told, my eyes were half-shut at first. I couldn't quite see them clearly until I donned my glasses and realized they'd been there all along. They smiled, with crooked teeth but still the most mesmerizing smile I had ever seen. I barely paid attention to his height but he cited the distaste for silk. He spoke five languages and one that I considered fondly was poetry. An expressionist artist, he had an insatiable passion for capturing beauty. He drew me, hung the portrait on his wall which he affectionately dubbed a masterpiece.
For summer, he had ugly shorts that strangely seemed so endearing on his legs. I wondered how someone could make something so horrid look so pleasing. He was more than gentle, he was kind. He didn’t pay much attention to music, but occasionally he bopped his head to the songs I sang. He went out one evening and returned with yellow roses and a dress he thought I would love. It was the very same dress, and the roses looked even better against the paint on my wall. I poured us the bottle of wine that now tasted much richer, and when I was not strong enough to peel the onions, he offered to do so.
This was nowhere close to what I wished for, yet it felt more fulfilling than any dream I had ever dared to imagine.
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