He liked this girl. She had great legs and small wrists. She had dark hair to silhouette a good face with her good nose. She watched interesting shows and listened to better music. The way she yawned and the way she laughed were both excellent and he liked her hands and her lips and he adored her words, but he was not asking for her hand or her lips or her word. He wanted her mind. He wanted it laid out and undressed in front of him, exposed for him to read like fiction. She was a book, a novel by a great author that he had just begun to read and he did not want to put her down. He had fallen in love with the way she said things and he could spend hours with her thoughts. He could drive them around or walk with them down the street. He could lie in bed with them and wrap them around himself in great sheets and lose track of time entirely. There was no boredom with her words. She could make monotony explode with vivid interest. He could ask her what she thought of paint swatches; just seven different shades of blue, and her eyes would mold them into deep metaphors that he could leap into.
Looking through her words, a deep dark blue would become a whole sea of stormy waters with ships blundering about and an echo of sailor’s prayers on the wind. And this lighter shade would be a high noon sky, watching her walk down to the liquor store for a pack of cigarettes. This bottom one would be her favorite sweater that she lost last fall after her brother’s football game, with that same time-faded hue stretched across the front of it. Another would be an unmistakable shirt worn by an unmistakable Vulcan from one of her favorite T.V. shows and following that train of thought the next shade would be a telephone box ripping through dates and locations but never quite landing at the right time and place (in front of her door, in an hour). The last two shades though would be so close to identical that if you blinked just too long you might miss the difference altogether. After a moment’s consideration she’d look to him to ask what he thought and there in his face she would know that they were undeniably his eyes. She’d hold the swatches to his head and call them by his name, establishing in her mind the parallel between the careful wonder of his gaze and the careful contrast between the blues.
He would go to a department store tomorrow and get paint swatches, a whole book of them, and he would ask her to read them to him. They would spend the whole day and much of the night living in shades and hues. They would drive for hours and walk down the street. They would lose track of time lying in bed, and he would wrap his arms around her like great sheets and they would blend into each other in the darkness until they were almost the same shade of blue. And if you blinked just too long you’d miss them altogether.