The Perfect Woman

The Perfect Woman
Originally uploaded by lorenzodom

The Perfect Woman

Funny how some things never change.

Funny how from time to time we rearrange the furniture, yet the house remains the same; home is still home, no matter where the chair sits or what color the walls are.

Much the same way circumstances change. Much the same way people move in and out of our lives—strangers, acquaintances, intimate bedfellows, good friends and great friends that you’d love to meet on moving trains and make strange bedfellows of…

Regardless, of where desire drives us though, we are driven in circles. Round and round and round. Some say life is circular, cyclical. It is difficult for me to disagree. Life has been one big circle for me in so many ways. Besides, I like riding bicycles. I like riding in infinite circles.

Much like I like pining for the perfect woman. My longing has long been an interminable desire that diurnally is drummed up from the core of me and compels me to lurk forward into the city—wanting, waiting, talking and taking chances with random strangers I see. I see them often.

Today, she passed me on the street where I live—“Just give me three guesses and I’d name that beguiling perfume of yours—Lauren, Escape, Chanel?”

I then caught a glimpse of her standing squashed at the rear of the train, shame I couldn’t scoot in a little closer, if only to smile “Hi,” belie my ephemeral infatuation with a simple “hello” and an ecumenical “Good morning.”

I liked the mellow mood the next one, with her little-baby, early-morning, spring-sky blue top-shirt-blouse put me in, when we stood next to each other on the 1 train downtown; I noticed that it matched the Hudson and East rivers that swirl about Manhattan on the subway map that was posted across from us. I had hoped that she was going as far as I was going; hoped that she’d get off at the same stop, so that I could continue admiring her, if only from afar, just a little longer. Alas, she stayed on. I got off.

But then I saw her again, and I pined for that dragon tattoo on her right ankle to be a sign of something good, or rather bad, for I wanted to follow her through to the end of the platform, there where I lost sight of her stride from afar, because I had decided to stop at my usual standing point instead, because I had it in my head that this pining was all a bit of a pipe dream anyway.

Once I got on the next train though, I noticed one whose earrings were really shiny, shaped like tear drops, but slightly, okay, much-much bigger then any tears I’ve dropped; silver is a nice color either way. Mexican silver most likely.

The woman sitting in front of me didn’t seem like she cared much for what she was reading, most of the time she simply looked away from the page, a solemn, somnolent, almost somber expression panned her face, she looked somewhat-sadly-pensive, thinking slowly about things quite unrelated to her book.

As I passed through the park, I admired and dreamed about the next one who passed me, telling her, “My, your bra supports your breasts quite well, I can’t tell if they’re real or not; they remind me of ice-cream bon-bons, like I used to get as a kid at the theater. Strawberry were my favorites. Maybe than, it’s really the sweet-pink hue of your sweater that made me think of them. Maybe.”

At the street corner of my office, a sleek paragon of what-I’ve-always-wanted came striding confidently toward me; I noticed her multi-tiered necklace, it reminded me of Morocco, I’ve never been to Morocco. I also thought “You really should stop smoking, the coughing is so unbecoming of your otherwise elegant demeanor.” The thought was not meant to demean her by any means. I still admired her necklace and elegant style.

Finally, once I was inside I pondered upon a certain long-legged stride, “Bet you I could walk a mile along with those fine legs of yours, side-hopping, side-stepping, sequaciously dashing others, stopping, if only to slow down and keep apace—hoping, magically, you do not misconstrue my sideways lurking glances—imagining that at some point we might face each other, even though chances were that you’d never even notice me anyway. And, by the way, I love the concave contour of your skirt that clings to your thighs as you walked on by me.”

Yes, I like the way women’s summer clothes seem to sink in into their every curve.

Alas, to my desk I go.

Tomorrow, though I will surely find her again, that perfect woman.

And once again I will take a little part of every cosmopolitan passing fancy with me, and I will pine, and divine mischievous ways to manifest my pining into something a little more somatic, a little more sensual.

Funny how some things never change.