Dream Date

The internet is made for fanfiction and fantasies and such, right? Right. Exactly. So, my date.

I'd date a writer. Not an artist, no, I don't exist in pictures. I can't be captured in lines. I've been called pretty, ugly, a 3, a 5, a 7. But I'm not there. I exist in ideas, opinions, thoughts that unlace the seams of my chest, throat, and shoulders, that push to the surface and bead and grow until they drip, pulled down by their own weight, catching again at my fingertips, pausing just long enough to form, dripping into words. I exist in those words.

So I'd date a writer. He'd write by hand, of course. Hand, fingers, pressed against paper. He'd write in pen, in dark, spilling ink that captured his thoughts, like netted fish or webbed insects. He'd complain about the permanence, but never pause for an eraser. He'd scratch out mistakes with a single strikethrough and move on. And he'd write about me.

He wouldn't offer it to be read, but he'd let me if I asked. He would have terrible handwriting. I would exist in his notebooks, constantly under his arm, by his side, always in his reach. His notebooks, mind you, not me. I'd be just out of reach.

There would be sketches of me in words, outlining the way my hips sway when I walk heavier on my left foot, the way my bottom lip looks thicker when I smile, the way my opinions are bigger than myself, he'd see beyond my cynicism, and he would keep these things in his notebook.