I know I turn the wrong way when it comes to love, but this is ridiculous, I think.  Mike is still leering over my shoulder, his eyes becoming more and more surprised.  I could have stuffed a whole roll of socks in his mouth;  I should have, but even then, nothing stops him from spitting out what he wants to say.
     “Oh my god, you just….oh my…you can’t imagine what…. She walked right by you….Right by you… if you only looked the other way…she was….she was……..”
     “An angel?  A Transformer?  Carrying a six-pack?  Holding a sack of marbles?  What?  What was she?” I asked.
     “Oh so….perfect for you.”  That was it.  The crushing blow.  It would have been one thing to say she was the most beautiful girl in the world, because I know Mike doesn’t have the greatest taste in the world, and in addition, I stand no chance with “the most beautiful girl” anyway.  I know because I frequently stand next to those girls on the fashion magazine covers in front of the mirror, just to pretend, you see.  And even then the sight makes me drop the magazine and ask myself why I bother buying Vogue.
     But “perfect for me”?  What was that about?  What’s perfect for me?  Did she suit my every taste to perfection?  So far, only blueberry cheesecake has done that.  And no girl dare compare herself to blueberry cheesecake, unless she has a halo on her head and can out-analyze, outwit, and out-impress me.
     Naturally, Mike was full of crap.
     “Mike, you’re full of crap.”
     He didn’t even bother to acknowledge me, as he sat back down in his chair, picking at the fries on his plate.  I resumed to my plate, glancing over the others eating lunch in the mall.  There were people of all shapes and sizes.  Squarish and tall, round and short.  Mixes of in-between and half-way-theres.  Anyone of them, I thought.  Anyone of them could be it.  I mean, the perfect girl.  Only happens in the movies.  And damn good movies only.  Perfect girl...
 
      Anticipates my thinking and beats me to the punch.  Yeah, that what she does, I mean, would do.  A brain is so very sexy to me;  I got my kicks watching “Mr. Wizard” and “Square One” when every other kid learned how to play baseball.  So I can’t throw a pitch that doesn’t land three feet from home plate.  I can integrate any polynomial function from here to the moon.  At least I think I can.  But I do know this.  She would.
     The perfect girl.  I mean, she would have to be smarter than me, right?
     “What’d you say?”  Mike asked, a burger pressed to his lips.
     “What?  Nothing?  Close your mouth, man.”  I prodded at my pasta, till I was certain it was just as tangled as it could be.  When I was done, there were knots in it a Boy Scout couldn’t undo.  I was satisfied and so I took up the whole mess and swallowed it whole.

     But maybe....what if she wasn’t smarter than me?  No, a better thing to say is that she would be smarter than me...in some way.
     So what if she can’t do math?  I’ve got calculators that can do more than I ever will, and I don’t even like my calculator a little bit.  But if she could out-anticipate me and my kaleidoscope of moods, that would certainly mean perfection.  At least in my eyes.  Someone who could see right through me, guess my thoughts and act on them.  Would know when I was lying to her and make me explain the truth.  Empathic and caring, because she must care, at least a little bit, because of the constant attention she would have to pay me.  Yes.  A perfect girl who would be the perfect companion.  Receptive, alert, caring.  Yes, that’s it.
     “That’s what?  Why are these nonsensical sentences coming from your mouth?  What’s in your spaghetti, huh?”
     “Nothing Mike.  Shut up.  Keep your eye out for that perfect girl of yours.  You know they say the perfect ones only come around once in your life.  Better hope they’re wrong.”
     “Nope.  She was the perfect one for you.  I could tell it.”
     “What makes her perfect for me?  How’d you know what girl’s perfect for me?”
     “I can just tell.  She had that thing… she had that quality that says she could put up with your insanity.”
     “What…?”
     “You know what I mean.  That weird crap you say half the time that I don’t understand.  You go off on some weird shit that I don’t understand and I’m wondering if you’re ever coming back.  She had that thing that tells me she could handle you.”
     “Handle me?”
     “Yup.  Like an obedient dog.”
     So apparently he saw a dominatrix for me.  Leather whip and studded collar.  Yummy.  Apparently I’m some lunatic that needs to be whipped up to shape.
     Whatever.  A perfect girl that could handle me.  What am I, a bicycle?
     “What bicycle?”, Mike asked.
     “Would you stop that?  Keep your eye out for Mark and the rest of them.”
     “Whatever.”
     A perfect girl for me.  And he finds her by just looking at her.  Yeah, right.  Apparently there’s some girl in the mall wearing a “I can handle any crazy man” t-shirt.  Perhaps it’s to give this little old crazy guy an easier time of finding her.
     Perfect girl.  Whatever.
     ‘Handle me?  What was that about?’ I thought.

     A girl that could put up with my conversation and company.  I admit that would be impressive, but hardly worthy of perfection.  I’m difficult at times to be with, fine, so a little patience and will power would be a nice thing for a girl to have.  Fine.  But handle me?  Control my wild thought processes and haphazard behavior?  The many moods dictated by the cycles of the moon?  My constant ambiguity and unattachment.  The way I could easily pick up everything I own and leave and start somewhere else?  The rampant acts of sarcasm…the bouts of loneliness…the different shades of blue I wear in a week…the way I fall down all by myself…the long walks I take when it seems like I don’t know where I want to go but I know it’s somewhere at the end of the journey…the continual denial and acceptance of the normalcy of my life….me.
     Fine.  Fine.  A perfect girl.  Good, nice, very well.  So at least Mike got the right idea.  Fine, good for him.  I’ll give him a pat on the head or something.
     But that’s only a theory, an idea.  A theoretical girl.  Made up of the same stuff daydreams and books and movies and songs are made of.  Little electrons in the head.  Aren’t all perfect girls just theories that we suppose, imagine, hope and wish for.  Fine, great, I’ve about had it with all that dreaming, frankly.  Done with it, I say.
     “Say what?”
     “Nevermind.”
     “Nevermind what?  What’s with you…oh my god.  There she is, there she is…”
     Without a hint of thought I turned and followed the line from his eyes to the girl in the satin shirt and black skirt, walking to the food tables.  She stopped by a window and peered inside, her long black hair shimmering in the ugly mall lights.  Her hands carried a single shopping bag, calmly crossed in front of her.  I only saw the reflection from the window, her eyes inquisitively gazing through the glass.  Her expression one of careful deliberation, a calculation of time and purpose and priority.  After a moment  more, she turned and resumed walking, a stride taken confidently but unassumingly.  Her eyes were in the direction she was headed, playing in part watchful, part alert, but totally at ease with the crowds that walked around her.  Her mouth found a quiet grin, not so much a smile nor frown, but a courteous sight to anyone that passed her.  That would include me, as she passed our table, my eyes locked to hers.  She saw my stare, thought, then smiled and continued in her way.  Wow.  That was impressive.  Complete control…of everything.  Herself.  These crowds.  A guy staring at her like she was a walking Mona Lisa.

     Impressive.  So damn impressive.
     I found Mike looking at me looking at her, eagerly waiting for my next words.  Perfect…means unattainable…dream-like…something that can never be….
     “All right dammit.  So you were right.  What do you want, a cookie?”
     I resumed to eat after a quick glance up to see that she was lost in the crowd.  I was back to my pasta, still waiting patiently for the rest of the guys to show up, thinking of blueberries for some reason.