Perfect Strangers
Rosanna Durham
At school I fancied the head boy. Harbouring a crush on him was a team sport: half my class shared the infatuation. “I really fancy you,” I told him one day after lunch, all heart in mouth, hair in a ponytail and skin decorated not with make-up but with acne. “That’s so nice of you,” he said, and then after a pause added, “We don’t even know each other.” Despite his polite put-down, it felt good to be a spokesman for my heart.
At university there were library crushes. I’d peer over the edge of my book at my Type A man-grumpy, older and bearded. He was a French postgraduate student who frequented the intellectually exotic Freud bookshelf, while I suffered over at Renaissance painting. Once or twice we touched hands, in the innocent and coincidental way that library users sometimes do. We bonded over these bookish moments, never committing them to something more memorable. The furthest we got talking was a shy ‘hello’ in the basement cloakroom. At the end of the year he returned home to France.
Frustrated, I remembered the confessional romances of my school years. “When you have a secret crush, confess it!” I told my friends, still annoyed at not having spoken to the French bloke who read Freud.
In a city garden one day, I passed another grumpy, older, bearded man. I was swept up in a sudden attraction, senses sharpened to hypersensitivity. We walked down the road a few metres apart, and we went into the same café together. At the till we stood side by side. I got lost looking at the swirls of his facial hair and never met his eyes. He paid for his coffee and walked away.
It’s easy to regret secret crushes, and regrets are the visitors that never leave. They don’t shut up. They’re bad company, and they nag.This time I had a second chance. A couple of hours later, I saw the man again. I ran down the street after him, and touched his shoulder. When he turned around the words that came to mind were rom-com predictable. “Do I know you?” I said. What I wanted to say was: “I already know you, you’re my perfect man.” Taking his headphones off, he looked strangely at peace with the question and said, “Hello, I’m Julian from the Mighty Boosh.”
I’d heard of the Mighty Boosh, but I’d never watched an episode. It seemed only polite to explain that I’d made a mistake, and walk away. The worst of it was that he must have thought me a die-hard fan. I’ll find love one day, but it won’t be when I expect it.
(via Sarf)
Sigh. My perfect man.
