my perfect man (pictured below without his half-rimmed glasses circa
ten years later and 5 into our marriage), frequents 'good times'
monthly. I've seen him, flitting between chique cliques and giggly
girls, only noticing me when I'm 5 pints uglier and all the more in love.
he doesn't offer me confident smiles nor acknowledging nods, just a
loneliness in his eyes that tells me he'll be mine one day and even if
he isn't mine one day, gives me solitude confident enough to be
mistaken for hope which I swallow, whole and lovingly and keep warm in
my belly till I forget similar definitions, idyllisms and attempt to
remember in the course of 5-pints-more. I will tell him one day, that I am a woman and that I will love him and that he will be mine. but not in those words, cause I will also be drunk.