(IM)PERFECTION

A story I've been working on for a while, so I'll just post a little something from the whole thing.

It was horrible, the waiting. The space and time surrounding us. It felt like we only excited there, on Boulevard Emile-Servais. I hated the tension whenever I went to lunch, came back or after school. I'd stop eating lunch for weeks, even months, because I was constantly feeling the pressure inside, the nervousness, as if I was about to write an important exam. 'What if he won't come out? What if he'll be there earlier? Or worse, later! What if I've already missed him... Keep looking for the car...he might drive by.' I was completely dominated by chaos and my thoughts wouldn't find a way to arange themselves to think logically. People who'd I spend my lunch breaks with talked to me, they were all telling me things, telling me stories, asking me stuff but I wasn't there I was building. Building plans, my heart was in a permanent hurry and my eyes, wild. Life was becoming fugitive. I was trying, I swear I was! Sometimes when I sensed too much tension and couldn't bear being around many people or even talk to people, I'd silently go to the library and read or scribble little notes about him in my notebook, notes that addressed him or described his beauty. I was yearning for him. One of my few friends at school used to help me with my childish mania. We'd laugh about it, talk about it for hours, she'd support me, she'd meet up with me on every break to look for him and then admire his eternal beauty. Oh these were the good days, days full of sun and laughter, days where I would actually dare to stare and smile or even laugh at him. I guess that, realizing that I wasn't able to do all these things underlined the fact that I was becoming crazy, since, I wouldn't dare to look at him but was obsessing over him more than ever, more than any person could obsess over someone. Thus, I wasn't the only one with an altered attitude, I'd find my dear friend sighing and looking annoyed at me whenever I mentioned S or a 'cigarette break' after lunch, she'd be like ' No, stop, what the f**k do you have from that? Standing there and waiting until he comes out, I'm out!' I understood and accepted her with all my heart.This criticism, this reality she made me confront with increased my love for my dearest friend, I understood, she was right, I was crazy and aware of that, that is why I would laugh and stay by myself. Many times my admired being would drive past me and stare at me mechanically, as if he couldn't help it. From time to time he wouldn't notice me but I always did, I always noticed and observed him like a precious painting. I was and still am, actually, very fond of imperfection. Although I am likely to say that I am an extreme perfectionist, I tend to be attracted more by imperfection rather than the opposite. To change my point of view, S was far from perfect ( even though I, personally, considered him as perfect), his features weren't perfect, his nose wasn't graceful and the wrinkles on his forehead would scare all of my friends away, because they immediately considered this as OLD. He was short and faintly shaped, slight limbs and skinny legs. His ears, covered by his haircut seemed to be complete opposite of beauty and perfection. I shall not forget the hands, I'd never seen such hands, overworked and tired. To my consolation, I was an im-perfectionist and all these little details that seemed to be highly criticized by my so-called friends seemed perfect to me. I was passionately in love with his nose and I secretly idolized the wrinkles that conjured life and natural evolution if not roughness, I loved his height and his light limbs and skinny legs with his perfectly shaped butt, his body made me want to hug him and take care of him because he was so little, if not my height, perfect, I thought that I would be able to manage it all perfectly. The hands, were perfect too! Whenever I had a glimpse of them, I wanted them all over me, but mostly on my face and on my lips. He had a childish voice and childish laugh and this made him seem weak and innocent considering his occasional roughness. When I would spot him in his car, I'd look inside and see his wide opened blue eyes, looking around. They looked wildly around, they'd even pierce the dark windows of his car and that would make me wonder about his view on the world, on life. What was his mind precessing while he was hectically chewing his gum and looking around the streets. No matter what, he was perfect or imperfect shall I say?