You are My Favorite

Inspired by:
Padraig’s My Girl-

On those days that I admit to myself that I want a guy, I began to wonder what shape that fabled man might take. What color would his perfectly tinted eyes be? What shade of hair would I find between my fingers? What would we talk about as we laid on the couch on a lazy Sunday afternoon? I would want him to be a writer, or at least some type of artist, because, as my father once told me, only one artist can understand another. I’m mostly over the physical characteristics, though a dark brunette can still make me stop and stare. He would be successful, or at least driven, because there is still that part of me that can’t stand mediocrity. We would have a weekly date of wine and conversation. I would catch him watching me as I made cookies, with a tender look in his eyes and I would know that he loved me more than he could have ever imagined. He would let me put my feet on his while I am sleeping because they get cold at night. He would understand that sometimes I have to run away to know what I am coming back to; that there is a part of me that is restless and it has nothing to do with him at all. I would call him by a nickname that his mother had used for him as a child and he wouldn’t mind at all. If I told him that I loved him more he would respond “I know” and I would act hurt so that he would kiss me on the forehead. We would drive out to the country so we could sit on the hood of his car and listen to the lyrics of songs while we counted the stars. If we got lost, we would remember all the details and relate them in funny voices to friends who weren’t there. And every night, before we fell asleep, we would push the hair back from my eyes and say, “you are my favorite.”