I was once in a hip furnishings shop when I met the Most Beautiful Girl I've Ever Seen. She works there. A couple decades my junior and not a remotely plausible prospect even if she weren't, she nonetheless effortlessly oozes loveliness and grace out every pore. Helping matters is that she's extraordinarily personable. She should, by rights, be a ball-castrating show pony. Alas. For hours after we chatted, all I could think was "Wow. Wow." She lingered in my mind for days, like when I see a truly great film or concert.
Let's call this work of art "Mirabelle." We talked for maybe a half hour in 2014 and never since.
A few weeks ago, I ran into her on the street. She spotted me first and greeted me warmly. She couldn't remember my name, but she remembered details about me. I can't remember a single thing about her life, I marveled to myself. If I can't make myself care about her details, what chance does anyone else really have? She charmed my friends and spun off, long brown hair cascading down her back, like in take 84 of a shampoo commercial.
"How." asked my stunned, lovestruck buddy.
I am sure I do not know. But next time I see Mirabelle, I'm thanking her for making me look like a stud. Or maybe a pervy old fart.