perfection

You look like death.

We had the perfect date a few weeks ago, and I've been avoiding her ever since then. I could see our lives unfold from that moment. We'd be so cute together, complementing one another. We had a real shot at happiness. And not just happiness, perfect happiness. The kind that nobody ever gets. The kind where nothing will ever go wrong for either of us ever again.

She's called and texted few times. She's trying not to seem worried or confused or upset but I know she is. Everything is so precisely worded, like she's planned this a lot, she's making sure she's not saying the wrong thing. And she isn't, I guess, it's just there's no right thing to say. It's not that I don't want to see her, even. Of course I do. What kind of a fucking madman gives up a shot at perfect happiness?

But I had to. That life scares me. Perfection is an end. There's no what happens when you arrive, because you've already got there. No screaming arguments. No days or weeks where you just can't stand the thought of each other, only to run into them later and try to say something nasty but instead you just say "hey" and act like it never happened, and all that pent up anger and hatred just flows away like it was never there in the first place.

Perfection! You don't change when you're perfect already. You can't go on a months-long journey and come home a different man, hopping from seedy couch to seedy couch, living dangerously, alone and confused in a strange city with nothing holding you back. You could be anything you wanted here--unless you already have perfection waiting for you at home.

And I can't tell her that. Because she'd argue and she'd convince me that she's right. We'd give it a shot. I'd be happy. I'd be happy and I wouldn't need to know anything else in the world. And that fucking terrifies me.