I idealize moments in my mind, perfectly shaped perfectly contained space vast and known. I am the creator of beautiful things and am ultra obsessive in details and denials. But once these thoughts travel the expanse, external from internal, a storybook fantasy to cold hard reality, lost in translation occurs since ideal scenarios have no chance in a world ruled by imperfection.

When I saw Cassie standing before me, biting her nail as she usually did when nervous, I waited for that imperfect detail. But when she said hi, with an inflection of someone unwieldy in their compassion yet dying to show sensitivities, there was no doubt she had read the letter I’d given her days ago, and that now she was giving shape to my fantasy, for she too was a woman prone to romanticism. From other people’s point of view, Cassie and I standing idle by a mailbox, we probably looked simple present, but my god, I knew we were going to be future perfect.