Perfect Girl
Daniel Yetman June 19, 2011The few scattered clouds in the sky seem to disintegrate across the horizon, leaving nothing but a perfect blue backdrop. Darryl stares at the sky with longing eyes, hoping that maybe somewhere near, she is staring at it too. The sky isn’t the only perfection today, for today she looks perfect too. The sun beats down on his skin leading him to believe that he will soon burn. He doesn’t mind though, the sun will be setting soon enough—in another hour shadows will stretch across the ground. Aloe Vera will heal the sun’s scars but nothing will ever heal his heartache. But why would he ever want it healed?
A broken heart is motivating, a driving force in an otherwise flat life. It keeps one from getting too comfortable in one’s own skin. It keeps us from growing lethargic—a reminder of why we must always stay dedicated.
Darryl stares directly into the sun then looks away still with the afterimage burned into his cornea. His feet have trouble gripping onto the shingles of the house and he has to constantly shift his position to stay somewhat comfortable. He tries to enter an innocent mindset, watching the birds and butterflies. He seems to be in an emotional state resembling plastic happiness, tears seem likely. He’s not holding them back per se but he is like a ticking time bomb—if he receives one piece of bad news or if somebody is less than polite today he will likely breakdown. He has already made peace with the fact he is going to cry today but he would rather wait to the end of the day.
His heart is fluttering instead of beating; unfortunately he can’t remove her from his mind. To him there is no better feeling in the world then just sitting on a rooftop picturing the one who holds his heart. Alas after such mania comes jealousy, resentment and most of all yearning. There has been so much yearning. There still is so much yearning.
He slowly climbs from the rooftop back through his bedroom window carefully repositioning the screen meant to keep insects out. He searches through his closet looking for the perfect shirt. None of them seem suffice, even his favorite shirt now seems bland and dull cast upon his shoulders. He puts it on anyway and looks in the mirror to be met with the reflection of nothing special, just one of billions—replaceable in every way. He tries to fix himself up, put gel in his hair and dress as presentably as possible. He begins to worry, wondering if he should have had a shower but he quickly remembers that he has already had four today. Still, one more couldn’t hurt… He barely resists the temptation. He sprays on cologne, a foreign habit for him. He’s not quite sure how much to put on so inevitably he puts on too much.
Darryl reaches towards his nightstand and picks up a mint, eats it and searches for gum. After nearly five minutes of rotating between mints and gum, trying to make his breath absolutely sublime he opens his bedroom door a crack and creeps downstairs towards the kitchen. Although his hunger is unimaginable he cannot eat anything for it might undo the perfect scented breath that he worked so hard to achieve. Light shines through a window above the patio door and lands on a sofa in the living room; all the sun’s might seems to be concentrated in one beam of energy. He sits slightly askew from the sun spot and stares at a television that isn’t turned on. Darryl’s heart is pounding so hard that the leather seems to have a pulse of its own. People walk in and out of the house freely, running up and down the stairs to their own quarters and back out towards the pool. Time moves three times quicker than normal and there’s a feeling growing between his abdomen and chest that feels almost sickening—almost as a falling sensation. When finally she is the one who walks through the door he finds himself petrified like a piece of driftwood left for a hundred years. Her eyes don’t befall upon him like his do upon hers but instead look straight, too straight to pretend she didn’t see him. She walks by without so much a smile. Darryl shivers as the wall that is his disillusion seems to crack.
As she leaves the room again Darryl pulls a piece of paper from his jean’s pocket. Scribbled on half a piece of loose-leaf is everything he has ever wanted to say to her. It’s not a long note but it is efficient, dictating without any unneeded novelties. It is written in red pen that bleeds through the page and it is smudged in spots leaving it essentially useless to anybody but him. He folds it back into his pocket and walks back up a staircase that now seems to have fifty steps. Darryl goes back into his room, takes off his tie, rolls up his sleeves and lies face up on his mattress relieving an exasperated sigh. There’s a small vent on the ceiling that seems to be blowing out cold air. His gaze becomes fixated on it until hours later he lulls himself to sleep.
He dreams all night long, images of her. He dreams of what it would be like to kiss her perfect lips or touch her perfect cheek. But they are only dreams.
The next day he wakes up two hours later than he meant to. When he opens his eyes he’s met with the vent again. It seems to sparkle as the air around it spins. The day seems to progress in much the same way as the last, by midday the sun is shining brightly and he is sitting on another rooftop staring at the beauty that surrounds him. She becomes his only thought in his self-imposed isolation. And again he prepares himself for a night of tears, he climbs back through the window into his bedroom and finds his second favorite shirt and relives yesterday’s ritual. Once the knot in his tie is perfect he creeps down the stairwell—he stumbles on his way down and almost falls face first on the bottom stair. She is there to witness his awkwardness. He tries to smile and play it off as nonchalant but his smile is forced and she looks back at him like he is insane. Embarrassed he walks by her without saying a word. He strolls to the garage, sweating heavily and sick with worry—love struck and with about as much charisma as a dead rat.
He sets the fifteen pool balls inside their triangle and removes it cleanly. His break is wild and indicative of a rookie; one ball does find home in the far right corner pocket, the nine ball.
“Stripes,” He says to himself.
There are voices in the kitchen and Darryl is convinced that they are about him; he hears his name and tries to eavesdrop but their words are broken.
“Darryl… have a chance… to know… she said… to be told…”
“Doubt… hopeless…”
The word hopeless is particularly painful. It hurts enough knowing that he is bound for a hopeless heartbreak but hearing somebody else say it is devastating. He finishes his pool game, beating himself. By night he returns to his rooftop hideout. The crickets sing a melody so sweet it sounds like a love song (to Darryl at least, but to him everything sounds like a love song these days).
The stars are beautiful, probably more beautiful than anything he has ever seen before. The sky gives him chills, knowing how small—insignificant—his life is in the grand scheme of things—yet, with this vast universe, billions of years of history and billions more still to come it seems that she is the only thing that matters. His eyes begin to water as his weakened emotional state seems to emphasis his limerence. He can’t stop imagining her not imaging him imaging her. He takes a deep choppy breath that brings with it self-pity and loathing. When the sun starts to peek across the horizon he finally goes to bed.
The next night with a lump in his throat eventually the time feels right; he stands outside her door ready to knock. He looks straight up at the doorway—a door frame that now seems twenty feet high. He knocks three times and can hear a voice on the other side of her bedroom door. She is not the one to answer the door, of course she isn’t.
With a heavy heart he speaks, “Is… Is she there?”
“Yes, one second.”
The girl who opened the door closes it again. Several seconds later she opens it again and simply says, “She wants you to come in.”
“That’s good.” He responds, so nervous he’s on the brink of consciousness.
Walking into the room, she stands as the centerpiece. Only one word is needed to describe her appearance, perfect. Her hair is still wet, as if she has just walked out of the shower. The slight curls and waves in her hair suit her well.
He tries to speak but nothing comes out; Darryl becomes very aware that she is looking at him and he has a pretty clear idea of what she must be thinking.
“Hi,” he starts.
“Hi,” She says with a hint of empathy.
He begins his speech; every word is perfect, it is clear that he has rehearsed it a thousand times in his head. He tries to read her facial expressions but she seems to have no tells. When he finishes she seems to weight his confession of limerence. She takes her time before speaking. He knows what she is going to say even before she does. He crosses his toes subtly in his socks hoping—praying—that her word choice spares him of what he fears most.
“Please don’t say I’m nice” he says to himself.
“I think you’re a really nice guy—” The knife twists in his chest, and then is dragged towards his right hip.
“I think you’re nice—” The words spin in his head, beating him into the ground.
“Nice…nice…nice…nice—” Hearing it is painful.
She looks at him with sorrow in her eyes, as if she wants to give him the response that he wants but she simply can’t. Her eye contact becomes fleeting as she starts to have trouble looking at him straight. He thanks her for her time and a minute and a half after he first entered the room he’s leaving again. All choked up he tries to make his way to the staircase but he is intercepted and is forced into a conversation he wishes to avoid. He tries to edge himself out of the mundane conversation he has somehow been caught in but it takes longer than he would have liked.
The rooftop looks different tonight, the stars don’t seem to shine but sit dampened, as if they are soon going to extinguish. Darryl reaches into his pocket and fumbles for the piece of paper with his script written on it. He stares at it blankly until he realizes that he didn’t say everything that he should have said to her. The void in his heart grows as he tries to capture the memory of the moment that just passed—the melancholies of crickets in the distance don’t do him any favors either… He folds the piece of paper twice in half and walks into his bedroom. Above his bed he fixates on the vent that gently blows cold air. Carefully he slips the paper between the strips of metal, making sure it balances. He sleeps soundly with a broken heart. But even still, in the bottom of his heart resides a slight flicker of hope. Like a candle refusing to burn out he sleeps, dreaming of the perfect girl.
All rights belong to the original author, as defined under the Canadian Copyright Law.
DannYetman
www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com
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