One December afternoon, I met the greatest guy. Full of life, wisdom and wit, carrying the passion of the universe. Tell you the truth, he’s not that good-looking. He doesn’t stand out that much. His clothes are nothing special. The back of his hair is still bent out of shape from sleep. He isn’t that young, either - must be near 20, not even close to a “boy,” properly speaking. But still, I know from fifty yards away: He’s the 100% perfect guy for me. The moment I saw him, there was a rumbling in my chest, my IQ scintillated in different reverbs, and my mouth became as dry as a desert. Maybe you have your own particular favorite type of guy- one with those trending abs, say, hawk eyes, or deft fingers to comb your hair or brush your cheeks, or you’re drawn for no good reason to guys who take their time with every meal – especially when they’re with you. I have my own preferences, of course. Sometimes in a restaurant I’ll catch myself staring at the guy at the next table to mine because I like the shape of his nose. But no one can insist that her 100% perfect guy corresponds to some preconceived type. Much as I like noses, I can’t recall the shape of his - or even if he had one. All I can remember for sure is that he was no great beauty yet filled with insight. It was odd as it was good. “Yesterday I met this great guy,” I tell someone. “Yeah?” she says. “Good-looking?” “Not really.” “Your favorite type, then?” “I don’t know. I can’t seem to remember anything about him - the shape of his eyes or the curves of his lips.” “Strange.” “Yeah. Strange.” “So anyhow,” she says, already bored, “what did you do? Talk to him? Follow him?” “Nah. Just passed him by.” He was talking to someone. I was talking to someone. Though, I wish I could have talked to him. Half an hour would be plenty: just ask him about herself, tell him about myself, and - what I’d really like to do - ex