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Posted on April 23, 2013 by Flan

“Of course he is distant, he is 150 km away, across the open sea somewhere in Tuscany.” It is how your friend Bee replies at you complaining about Mr Perfect. And so damn distant seems the time when you would be coming home from his apartment hopping. You remember one saturday morning in particular, two men jogging towards you, one winked and said to the other, loud enough for you to hear: “Look at the smile on this one, she is coming back home all satisfied!” And yes, you were satisfied, his body was still looking for you a couple of times a week, in an uncomplicated and lighthearted way. Now everything has shifted in exactly what you were trying to avoid: the feeling of being in a relationship without the comfort feeling of having a boyfriend. And your last encounter has been the most elucidating. Before falling asleep, you crawl practically under his armpit and say: “We haven’t seen each other for more than a week, tell me something nice”. And he says: “You wanna hear something nice? One of those so damn tiny boats we were racing against, they spend 1.3 million euros on them and one of those guys he travels with eight prostitutes, one for every member of the crew and then they swap around. That is nice.” The next morning you are on the bed yawning and make the mistake of asking him while he is getting ready for work when you will see him next. “You know I am going to be away every weekend from now on. See some other men, if you need to. You have my permission.” Yeah, those were exactly the words you were looking for. And he thinks he is being funny, if not kind and sympathetic, giving you permission to see other men. You are there paralyzed, transfixed like, not so much by his words, but mostly by his perfectly round and tight buttocks. And you wonder who is he seeing, how many, when, where. But it is an instant, you know it is futile to linger on certain thoughts that will just make you feel uneasy. You get up and slap his bottom hard and reply. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” A quick cup of coffee and you say goodbye hastily at his front door, while his kitty comes back in after her night out. Mr Perfect is wearing a kaki jacket. Well, there is something you will certainly not miss: his bad taste in clothes. And it is more painful than a stab in the heart, thinking of such a beautiful body so badly dressed, such a waste. And you hop onto your bike, your inner thighs still warm and tense for the nocturnal sex. He blows you a kiss and stares at you for long while you speed away, his smell in your hair while you are pedaling away. You are never sure of his words nor his looks. And you still aren’t sure if he has in fact a heart, hidden somewhere. At least you are sure of one thing: you do have a heart and yours is beating loud and shining bright.