He had met her first, at his roommate's twentieth birthday party. Standing in the center of the room, with a pointed party hat perched on top of her head, its elastic band snapped and dangling beneath her chin. He was still pretty neurotic back then. Had only recently stopped carrying a folded copy of The Catcher in the Rye in his back pocket. And only then because he was tired of being "that guy." Everyone said that she was pretty and knew it. But did she?
He asked her that night if that were true, and she couldn't answer clearly. Drunk, maybe. But there was more to it than that. As if she were tired of attempting to justify the sheer joy of one's hair looking good on a Friday morning, or the pleasure of pink lipstick. More than that even, as she turned to him in the shadow of the shingled roof, and said, "I just want to be perfect. I wish I were perfect."
