Oiful April m, on a narrow side street in Tokyos fashionable Harujuku neighborhood, I walked past the 100% perfect girl.
Tell you the truth, shes not that good-looking. She doesnt stand out in any way. Her clothes are nothing special. The back of her hair is still bent out of shape from sleep. She isnt youher - must be hirty, not even close to a "girl," properly speaking. But still, I know from fifty yards away: Shes the 100% perfect girl for me. The moment I see her, theres a rumbling in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a desert.
Maybe you have your own particular favorite type of girl - oh slim ankles, say, eyes, raceful fingers, or youre drawn for no good reason to girls who take their time with every meal. I have my own preferences, of course. Sometimes in a restaurant Ill catch myself staring at the girl at the able to mine because I like the shape of her nose.
But no one insist that his 100% perfect girl correspond to some preceived type. Much as I like noses, I t recall the shape of hers - or even if she had one. All I remember for sure is that she was no great beauty. Its weird.
"Yesterday oreet I passed the 100% girl," I tell someone.
"Yeah?" he says. "Good-looking?"
"Not really."
"Your favorite type, then?"
"I dont know. I t seem to remember anything about her - the shape of her eyes or the size of her breasts."
"Strange."
"Yeah. Strange."
"So anyhow," he says, already bored, "what did you do? Talk to her? Follow her?"
"Nah. Just passed her oreet."
Shes walki to west, and I west to east. Its a really nice April m.
Wish I could talk to her. Half an hour would be plenty: just ask her about herself, tell her about myself, and - what Id really like to do - explain to her the plexities of fate that have led to our passing each other on a side street in Harajuku on a beautiful April m in 1981. This was something sure to be crammed full of warm secrets, like an antique clock build when peace filled the world.
After talking, wed have lunewhere, maybe see a Woody Allen movie, stop by a hotel bar for cocktails. With any kind of luck, we might end up in bed.
Potentiality knocks on the door of my heart.
Now the distaween us has narrowed to fifteen yards.
How I approach her? What should I say?
"Good m, miss. Do you think you could spare half an hour for a little versation?"
Ridiculous. Id sound like an insurance salesman.
"Pardon me, but would you happen to know if there is an all-night ers in the neighborhood?"
No, this is just as ridiculous. Im not carrying any laundry, for ohing. Whos going to buy a line like that?
Maybe the simple truth would do. "Good m. You are the 100% perfect girl for me."
No, she wouldnt believe it. Or even if she did, she might not want to talk to me. Sorry, she could say, I might be the 100% perfect girl for you, but youre not the 100% boy for me. It could happen. And if I found myself in that situation, Id probably go to pieces. Id never recover from the shock. Im thirty-two, and thats what growing older is all about.
We pass in front of a flower shop. A small, warm air mass touches my skin. The asphalt is damp, and I catch the st of roses. I t bring myself to speak to her. She wears a white sweater, and in her right hand she holds a crisp white envelope lag only a stamp. So: Shes written somebody a letter, maybe spent the whole night writing, to judge