My girlfriend was perfect. Her hair, her skin, her smile, her grade point average, her charitable acts. She left the bathroom smelling better than when she entered. Her shit literally smelt like lilacs.
Her entire effing family was perfect. Doctors, superheroes, and philanthropists all. They liked rescuing abused animals and volunteering free medical advise on the weekends. Her grandfather had won both a Nobel prize and a Pulitzer. Her brother was on the front page of the paper after he pulled a homeless man off the subway tracks moments before he was pulverized by train. I don’t know why I had such a hang up about it, but I just did.
When I first met her I was so happy, so stoked to have found someone so perfect. I wasn’t sure what she saw in me, but that didn’t matter at the time. Eventually she began to seem too perfect, and I got worried. I started digging for the dirt because I just couldn’t believe that anyone could be so clean, so free of scratches or dings, so sparkly in the sunlight and so glowing in the dark. Just so damned perfect it made you want to puke if you sat down and really thought about it for a minute. I was looking for a fault, any fault at all. Was it truly possible that her only fault was that she had no faults? Then it came to me so all of a sudden that I actually fell off the toilet.
I was her only fault.
Fault zone Watch for cracks in road (by cyanocorax)