Some years ago, my best friend, on greeting me, enthusiastically followed his usual bone crushing handshake with the statement, “I’ve just met my dream girl!” Following some consideration and in reply, I enquired as to how he concluded that she was the girl of his dreams. My friend then proceeded to describe said young lady in detail, confirming indeed that she was the model of female perfection in every way. So much so, in fact, that I began to question her very existence, my pal being somewhat of a fantasist. However, on whipping out his smartphone from his jeans pocket, he began scrolling through a set of selfies portraying him and this siren of beauty in various poses and at numerous locations.
I was forced to admit that his physical description had not been exaggerated and that she was indeed objectively flawless in every way. So symmetrical were her features that one could have said that she had been designed not born, constructed not grown, like a precision instrument. Her hair, the perfect blonde bob, framed her face more like an item of expensive fashion than a hairstyle. She had deep blue eyes surrounded by the right amount of mascara and eyeliner to pay them a humble compliment. Above these, two shocks of fine dark hair formed eyebrows of such precision and complimentary blackness that they looked like they had been drawn on by Picasso. Her cheekbones, particularly in the smiling shots, looked like they could cut paper. Those same images boasted two perfect rows of teeth in the most vivid of white, only ever seen in TV advertising. Said examples of dental perfection could barely compete, though, with a pair of the reddest, fullest natural lips reminiscent of soft summer fruit. Centre stage of these features and enhancing them further was the slender, perfectly balanced nose as if it had been placed there with the greatest of exactitude. Her chin was in meticulous proportion to the rest of her face and ended in the slightest of points to create the perfect oval.
The wider shots confirmed my friend’s somewhat crude description of what the average male would call the perfect female body, augmented by tasteful, expensive clothes and accessories straight from the catwalk of London Fashion Week. The woman’s long, delicate neck led to the soft lines of her exposed shoulders which in turn drew ones eye to her exquisite collarbones, in my opinion, one of the most overlooked but attractive features of the female form. Wandering down to her chest, the eyes were inevitably drawn to her full, rounded breasts which obviously needed no support. Her waist was so tiny it left one wondering as to the location of her vital organs! The hourglass figure was completed with perfectly rounded hips, her legs seemingly never ending.
On taking all of this in I turned to my friend, who was still drooling over his own photos in self-satisfaction. I then enquired as to which dream this vision of perfection had appeared in and how frequently. Shooting me a somewhat puzzled look, my pal declared that he’d had no such fantasy. I then proceeded to interrogate him as to how then, this angel from heaven could possibly be the girl of his dreams. Looking increasingly uncomfortable, he reiterated that the girl in question had never appeared in any dreams, day or night and that, prior to their fateful meeting, he had never laid eyes upon her. Handing him back his smartphone and clasping my arm around his broad shoulder, I proceeded to tell my bemused mate about the chance and sad meeting with my dream girl.
I have had this recurring dream involving several encounters with this fateful feminine character for several years now. There she is, usually taking the lead in whatever shenanigans this particular fantasy has concocted for us. In the dream, everything is clear, her face, hair, the child-like frame of her body, all combining to give her the appearance of a dainty doll in the window of an exclusive toy shop. Even her voice is distinctive, soft with a slight creak to it, as endearing as the small indentation in her upper right cheek that is just too high to be a dimple. Her accent is northern university, posh with the odd colloquial give away. The permanent smile that graces her thin but perfectly formed lips is as genuine as the Koh i Noor diamond. Her imperfections enhance her perfection, mesmerising in their minuscule nature, for example, one tooth in the pure white row slightly out of place as if to say, “look at me”. The whole precision of the oval that forms her face, filled with a collection of perfectly matched features, each with a tiny but beautiful flaw. Even her hair, centre parted, framing her face like the jaded curtains of a precious exhibit, is slightly wispy at the parting, with a touch of grey, belying her tender 31 years.
The one comfort I used to gain from these fantastic encounters was that she did not exist, being half my age, any relationship in reality would have been impossible. However, this was tempered by the fact that, upon waking, I could never quite recall what she looked like. It was as if she was an unfinished portrait left standing on the easel in the artists studio. No matter how hard I squinted I couldn’t make her out. That was how she remained, in my dreams, for most of my adulthood, until one day she walked into my life.
She had previously existed in another dimension, that of fantasy where together we fought villains and defeated demons or just walked and talked, hand in hand, on a foreign beach. Our conversations were stimulating and satisfying, each giving way to the other with perfect timing. I was mesmerised by her distinctive intonation which made what she had to say all the more interesting. Her attentive listening and abundant empathy always got the best out of what I had to say. Never judgemental, she always had a comforting solution to a problem. Whilst she was talking I would be enthralled by her idiosyncratic features, to the point where I would sometimes get lost in their quirkiness and miss the thread of the conversation. She always knew this was happening though and would bring me back with a tiny hand on my knee or forearm. Her touch was as delicate as gossamer but sent electric shocks through my body.
Once I was in my deep sleep, she would appear wearing faded jeans and a navy wool jumper that had seen better days. The tiny floral collar of a blouse peeking through the neck of her jumper, the only admission of femininity. Her natural beauty floored me every time as if each meeting was the very first. My favourite part was her greeting. She would stroll up to me no matter where my dream took us and she would fling her arms around my neck. Then, at 5 feet two inches and seven stone wet through, she’d proceed to give me the deadliest bear hug lasting about two minutes. During this time, I would revel in the closeness of her tiny body, conscious of her small hard breasts pressing just below my ribs. I would reciprocate by wrapping my arms around her, almost twice, and lifting her off the ground with zero effort. At this point our heads would be level and I’d push my face into her wispy dark brown hair and find her small ear to whisper how much I had missed her. We would then pull away and at arms length I would drink in the beauty of that distinctive face, revelling in the warmth of her eyes like and old man embracing a winter fire.
Let me tell you of the day she walked into my life and dream became reality.