Today I met Mr. Perfect. His name wasn’t Peter. His name wasn’t John. His name didn’t rhyme with Washington or Beckham or any of those posters hanging on teenage girls’ walls, or stripped off the walls and transcribed onto their older, married minds. In fact, I’d wager 102.5% of my paycheck you’ve never heard of him, or never would have until this very point of reading.
Even then he may not have as powerful an impression on you as he has or had on me, depending on my present state of mind.
Over 6ft tall – the one thing you certainly couldn’t take away from him was his height. Yet it was not particularly his most endearing feature. Don’t get me wrong, you certainly couldn’t ignore it. But it was a feature u could – at least I easily took – take for granted, like, “of course, he’s tall, what else could you expect of this Adonis-type Man? Although it does contribute to his full-time charisma, his schooled facial expressions and his dazzling white smile. Perfect. Our meeting wasn’t a Mills & Boon dead end. In other words, I didn’t bump into him back to chest, while I was yelling the last lines of the latest Gossip Girl episode to my BFF; our eyes didn’t lock & hold when I dropped my monthly technical report on my way to the MD’s office as we both simultaneously bent to pick it up; and no, our fingers didn’t brush when I handed him a copy of the same report during the monthly board meeting. None of that corny M&B stuff.
A lot of this corny M&B stuff. The sound of his voice was like melting snow, heating the chills that travelled down my spine with each word. I kept praying that he would speak, that he would need to say something, anything, just to make a mess of my gently angled spine. His lips aimed Cupid’s arrows as they moved in sync, and his eyes shot those arrows straight through a certain part of me. And when he turned around and walked away, I could tell instantly that he was or had been a model, those well trained steps that could never fall or falter. Then he stopped suddenly but the lightness of it only served to give him balance. Planting first one foot, then the left as he stood at ease, all effortlessly, he could easily have been a soldier, but there was nothing stiff about his stance.
He would look good in uniform. He certainly gave the obviously YSL Royal Cut suit value for its money ( I would know, what with me being a huge sucker for men who look nothing but dashing in suits). He was a cut away from my regular specs – sharp, straight shoulders. His broad shoulders sloped gently filling every warp and weft of the 2-buttoner. He was the reason I would clause specs no. 27 of my Things That Make Him My Mr. Perfect list – “. . . or gently-sloping shoulders that reward any suit its money’s worth). Hell, he would look good in anything. Or nothing at all (yummm!) He was just one of those lucky, specially bred species of men. And they were few and far between and especially hard to come by. Heck, we had more chances of finding a building in Haiti these days.
Yet, I’d found him. And he was mine, all mine. His mind, his wit, his brain cells, gave me reason to praise every second. He was to die for. And I was certainly dying. Endorphins were working overtime to keep up and I knew I was fighting a losing battle because I could feel myself falling, falling, falling head over heels in love with him.
We’ve met 7 times this week already. And I am not letting go. Every single day I meet with him. He takes centre stage in my 15 by 15’ space . . . and then I let him take me on a journey from my world to his
Seducing Mr. Perfect. Mr. Perfect. Daniel Henney. Have you met him?
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