Once she met the perfect man. Though, at that time, she didn’t realize it. It was only four years later that the recognition of his perfection came to her. Too soon, in her opinion, inexorably too soon!
Nevertheless, she shrugged and conformed herself with the thought that by then he would be just like the others she had met after him.
She met the perfect man for a second time. It was summer and he was tugging his wife along. The three of them had less than five minutes together, enough time for her to get an answer to an important question. He was still the perfect man and she doubt that his little wife knew how perfect he was, because in order to recognize a perfect man one has to lose him first. And she learned the sad truth: that the perfect man for her might be perfect for others too.
She could describe hundreds of things making him perfect, but at the end she always concluded the same: a perfect man makes a woman feel perfect too, makes a woman feel happy, makes a woman feel like she is the only one that really matters. He had done that for her and now he was doing the same for his wife. The perfect man!
She never met a perfect man again. Never ever! She even stopped trying to meet one. If it weren’t for him, she would doubt that such category exists. She would think that she had dreamed of meeting a perfect man. She would regard herself as a mad woman, only because of the ridiculous concept of a perfect man.