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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.
"Pa<abbr>9９ｌiｂ?</abbr>rdon 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, ma<bdi>九九藏书</bdi>ybe spent the whole night writing, to judge from the sleepy look in her eyes. The envelope could tain every secret shes ever had.
I take a few more strides and turn: Shes lost in the crowd.
Now, of course, I kly what I should have said to her. It would have been a long speech, though, far too long for me to have delivered it properly. The ideas I e up with are never very practical.
Oh, well. It would have started "Once upon a time" and ended "A sad story, dont you think?"
Once upon a time, there lived a boy and a girl. The boy was eighteen and the girl sixteen. He was not unusually handsome, and she was not especially beautiful. They were just an ordinary lonely boy and an ordinary lonely girl, like all the others. But they believed with their whole hearts that somewhere in the world there lived the 100% perfect boy and the 100% perfect girl for them. Yes, they believed in a miracle. And that miracle actually happened.
One day the two came upon each other on the er of a street.
"This is amazing," he said. "Ive been looking for you all my life. You may not believe this, but youre the 100% perfect girl for me."
"And you," she said to him, "are the 100% perfect boy for me, exactly as Id pictured you in every detail. Its like a dream."
They sat on a park bench, held hands, and told each other their stories hour after hour. They were not lonely anymore. They had found and been found by their 100% perfect other. What a wonderful thing it is to find and be found by your 100% perfect other. Its a miracle, a ic miracle.
As they sat and talked, however, a tiny, tiny sliver of doubt took root in their hearts: Was it really all right for ones dreams to e true so easily?
And so, when there came a momentary lull in their versation, the boy said to the girl, "Lets test ourselves - just once. If we really are each others 100% perfect lovers, then sometime, somewhere, we will meet again without fail. And when that happens, and we know that we are the 100% perfees, well marry then and there. What do you think?"
"Yes," she said, "that is exactly what we should do."
And so they parted, she to the east, ao the west.
The test they<details>９9ｌｉb?</details> had agreed upon, however, was utterly unnecessary. They should never have uaken it, because they really and truly were each others 100% perfect lovers, and it was a miracle that they had ever met. But it was impossible for them to know this, young as they were. The cold, indifferent waves of fate proceeded to toss them unmercifully.
One winter, both the boy and the girl came down with the seasons terrible inluenza, and after drifting for weeks between life ah they lost all memory of their earlier years. When they awoke, their heads were as empty as the young D. H. Lawrences piggy bank.
They were twht, determined young people, however, and through their uing efforts they were able to acquire once again the knowledge and feeling that qualified them to return as full-fledged members of society. Heaven be praised, they became truly upstanding citizens who knew how to transfer from one subway lio another, who were fully capable of sending a special-delivery letter at the post office. Ihey even experienced love again, sometimes as much as 75% or even 85% love.
Time passed with shog swiftness, and soon the boy was thirty-two, the girl thirty.
Oiful April m, in search of a cup of coffee to start the day, the boy was walking from west to east, while the girl, intending to send a special-delivery letter, was walking from east to west, but along the same narrow street in the Harajuku neighborhood of Tokyo. They passed each other in the very ter of the street. The fai gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the brief<mark>九九藏书</mark>est moment in their hearts. Each felt a rumbling in their chest. And they knew:
She is the 100% perfect girl for me.
He is the 100% perfect <strike>.９9lib.</strike>boy for me.
But the glow of their memories was far too weak, and their thoughts no longer had the clarity of fouteen years earlier. Without a word, they passed each other, disappearing into the crowd. Forever.
A sad story, dont you think?
Yes, thats it, that is what I should have said to her.
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