The most beautiful girl I ever fucking met, ever, I met 3 years ago, and then once again 16 months ago, and finally last weekend in New York City.
Three Years Ago
It was at the Royal Ontario Museum in Toronto, on Friday Night ROM Nights when the museum would transform into a destination, a “night on the town”. Almost immediately upon arriving, we were introduced. I shook her hand and she locked her eyes with mine and I noticed her face and I gasped. I gasped at her fucking beauty because it was so rare, because I thought it was impossible for me to be startled by beauty anymore. So I gasped and a rush of air hit my lungs and I felt faint and she kept looking into my eyes and so I averted them to the floor.
Her fucking eyes! Never have shit like eyes seized me so powerfully. She blinked twice and her lashes swayed and I fell and I was finished. Of course now I know that it’s not just her eyes; after years of Facebook updates and Instagram photos, of studying and dissecting her face, I now know she’s unconditionally gorgeous. It’s her protracted eyelashes and heart-shaped head. Her perfectly symmetrical smile with glossy white teeth, the front two being proportionately larger than the rest, with the corners of her dark lips tucking sharply into her cheekbones. It’s the aura she has, this energy that she radiates that she’s this Disney princess who could walk into a forest and twirl and twirl and birds would land on her outstretched arms. It’s her sophistication and elegance and exquisiteness that she’s this mature, entrepreneurial professional who’s good at what she does, intelligent, strict, but absolutely fucking feminine and graceful and girly girl in her many dresses and heels.
Though at first, I swear, it was just her eyes. And in the next second it was her mouth, and then in the next her entire face.
My brain didn’t know what to do with this caliber of woman, and so it reverted back to high school mode, back to th self-preservation of the ego: You can’t get a girl like this, who the fuck do you think you are, you go take your beer and sit quietly in the corner and try not to pollute her air. So I looked at the floor so she couldn’t see the weakness through my eyes and made myself small and impotent and invisible. Don’t waste her time with your bullshit.
Sixteen Months Ago
I was drunk in a bar in Little Italy. She was at an adjoining table. I told her, “You are so beautiful.” She said, “Oh my god, thank you! Let me introduce you to the guy I’m dating.” I can’t remember what he looked like.
Last Weekend in New York City
There were tales that she was dating and had a boyfriend, and I was glad to hear it. When the odds are stacked against me, that’s when I’m empowered. The married, the divorced, the jaded, the celebrities, the met-through-Instagram-comments-section – this is the arena in which I’m emboldened and persistent without a hint of anxiety or self-consciousness.
Because now her rejection – I have a boyfriend – would be neutral. It’s no longer a personal rejection, you see, but a logistical one. I could now declare my confessions and she would say, I’m sorry, I’m seeing somebody, rather than, You’re a dirty, brash and immature man without a home and I am not physically attracted to you at all. I could trick myself that it’s not personal, that given different circumstances, she would be mine.
We have a mutual friend who was with her. Due to our enormously differing opinions on the piece of shit area that is the Meatpacking District, I didn’t see them until 4am, when the night had already winded down. My friend and I were drunk in the Lower East Side and refused to let the night die, so went to bother them at their hotel up in Murray Hill.
I was in a drunken, blacked-out state – I don’t even remember fighting with the taxi driver on the way over – and recall just a fleeting moment of the night: lying on the bed next to the most beautiful girl I ever fucking met, ever, holding her hand and her letting me do it, once in awhile stroking her palm with my finger to check that it was still there or that it was all real in the first place. I felt completely relaxed and utterly content and thoroughly whole, like I was sleeping on a fucking cloud. Like after chasing a sense of home for 16 months, I finally got it, in the tiny, perfect hand of this girl with a fucking flower for a face.
(That was fucking lame.)
The next morning I woke up on the couch of my friend’s condo, smiling, physically feeling like we kissed. Like we made out and held each other in a meadow until sunrise and spilled our secrets and confessed our sins and connected on a deeper level and took the next step – although we did none of those things. But that feeling you get that everything’s falling into place – that’s what I fucking felt on Sunday morning after drunkenly having my fingers intertwined with hers for what was probably only sixteen goddamn seconds.
What the fuck, do I have a chance? Did I always have a chance? I went in there to be rejected, to die in a hail of bullets, but I came out with a sliver of a chance that’s now going to consume my thoughts for countless hours, weeks, months?
She left New York the day after, and now she’s back in her world and I’m back in mine, and it’s just too baffling to see how the two would even fit together. But Jesus fucking Christ, that’s exactly the kind of woman I should be with, isn’t it? The one who made me gasp, the one who I thought was too radiant, the one who I’d be scared to death to lose, the one who I’d change who I am in order to keep. The one who finally stumped me, silenced me, turned me into a bubbling, incoherent buffoon at her feet.
The one who makes me think, while on this plane to Los Angeles and then to the rest of the world, what if she’s the adventure?
That’s the one I should be with, the most beautiful girl I ever fucking met, ever.