Imperfections, Part 1

Evil

When people come over to my place for the first time, they invariably comment about the piggy banks that I have all around the apartment. “You have a lot of piggy banks.” Or, “You must really like piggy banks.”

It’s true that I have a lot of them. But it’s not true that I really like piggy banks.

Most were given to me as gifts. Why? Because I guess people see that I have a lot of them, so they figure I like them, so they get me more. That’s okay though. I display all the piggy banks that are hand made. The hand-made-ness is what I really like -- they’re all unique in one way or another. None of them are perfect. One of my favorite piggy banks came to me via my God Fearing Indian Friend’s trip to Peru. The little guy is haphazardly painted and has a little chip on his right ear. But I think he has so much charm.

Maybe because I’ve always thought of myself as an imperfect person is the reason why I’m drawn to imperfect things. I have a habit of accidentally scratching up new watches within days of getting them. But I never mind the scratches. Once scratched up, the watches feel like they’re really mine. Once imperfected, they sit more comfortably on my wrist.

The iPhone Girl doesn’t know any of this background. We were sitting close together. Close enough that others who saw us would think, oh, those are two people who are comfortable with each other. But in truth, we were still just getting to know one another even though things felt accelerated. In a good way, though. I was telling her about my love for people-watching. At Starbucks on a Sunday morning. At the new Moma. On the subway.

“I have a special gift for people watching,” I say.

“Oh?” (Her eyes seem to twinkle and she has the ability to raise just one eyebrow, as if to question me, but at the same time, wordlessly prompting me to tell her more. I find this look incredibly attractive.)

“I’m not just a casual people watcher. I could go pro, if there were such a thing as a pro league for people watching. For example, within about a tenth of a second of seeing someone, I can spot any physical imperfection on them.”

She squints her eyes into narrow slits, but doesn’t say anything. So I continue.

“Bow-legged? I catch that right away. Really unattractive in females. One ear sticks out more than the other? I find that one cute, but I can’t help but fixate on it once I notice it. Asymmetry is so easy to spot. I basically do it unconsciously. I don’t even have to think.”

She perks up in her chair. She opens her eyes wide. They’re hazel-colored and very pretty. As if in slow motion, I see her lips curl up into a mischievous grim. She leans toward me.

“So tell me… What are my imperfections?”

I’ve got her. I’ve GOT her. She wants to play the game. You see, this is one of my games and it works like a charm. Once a girl asks me what her imperfections are, I tell her. She’ll ask the question, but she’ll never like the answer. What girl likes to be told outright what’s wrong with her looks? And even when I don’t spot anything right away, I just make something up. "Looks like you're developing freckles. Too much sun?" Or, "Oh, looks like you've got a bit of an overbite. But I think that's cute on you." The beauty of this game is that it puts a girl on edge. It lets her know that you know she’s not perfect. And once she knows that, she’ll try harder to gain your favor.

I turn so now we’re face to face and close together. She’s still wearing her mischievous grin and her wide open eyes are reflecting the dancing flame of a votive candle on the bar. With one hand, I softly tuck her hair behind her ear. I do the same on the other side, but this time I also brush my hand lightly across her cheek. I can see her respond to this. She closes her eyes for an extended blink and her grin melts from the look of mischief to the look comfort and pleasure.

Our gazes are focused on each other’s faces. For a moment, it feels as if no one else is around us, even though we’re two people in a packed lounge. I feel close to her.

She breaks the silence. “Well?”

Before that moment of closeness, my mind had already concluded to make something up, since I didn’t immediately see an imperfection in her face. It’s better when you make something up, because chances are, a girl will not have heard it said to her before, so it’s all the more jarring and disorienting.

My hands had been resting lightly on her shoulders. I take them off.

“I have a really good eye for these things. Really good,” I say. “But I don’t see anything.”

There’s something about her where it made me feel like I didn’t want to play the game with her. I wonder if it means something.