Something more than a friend, I can't quite explain her. A forever-friend, a piece of my heart. It feels like a privilege to know her the way I do. A secret. Like I went deep-sea-diving in a remote lagoon and found a mermaid who shares my taste in music. Magical and surprising, but familiar too. She so reminds me of my sister. The hair and the glasses. Tall and loving, safe.
If you're lucky enough to be in her heart, there's nothing you could ever say that she wouldn't take, hold, and hand back to you like a perfectly chosen gift. She's one of those rare instances where it feels like you created her.
Well, what I mean . . . When someone so perfectly suits and satisfies you, it's as if they sprung up out of you. Like, in your private daydreams and imaginations, you conjured up an image of utter comfort, and then that picture came alive and said, "Here I am. Isn't this what you ordered?" But in that there's a constant current of panic; a quiet concern that the simple rightness will disappear; a happy accident in reverse.
We clicked in that extraordinary, thrilling way, something like falling in love. And then one June night we shared secrets and booze in the darkened living room of dysfunctional British misfits, three walls around us. And that was that. The real thing, indeed.