Mr Perfect

In a hotel bar, waiting for service, I met a man who claimed to be perfect.

Tall, and with skin that the sun would be grateful to tan, he was a classic example of the aphorism men want to be him, and women want to be with him; and probably, deep down, men want to be with, too.

He had the look of a man who could straighten a banana just by looking at it.

Looking sharply down at me along the length of his thin, straight nose, he asked me what it was like to be imperfect.

“Mate,” I replied. “You’ve literally got a bogey. Let’s talk once you’ve got rid of that.”

He glared at himself in the mirrory surface of a cocktail shaker to reveal that what I had said was true: he did have a bogey.

I held out to him my tissue, which had only been briefly used, dotted with blood where it had been dabbed against a pimple.

He reluctantly took the tissue from me, and I took back once he’d finished.

And we began.

Rather than listen to my insights into imperfection, he preferred to talk about himself.

I wasn’t really listening anyway, distracted by the reflection of a boat that seemed to be floating behind the bar.

vss #45

---

Sign up to receive new posts straight to your inbox