• “Do you love him?”

    No, I don’t. But I certainly won’t be telling you that. You… You’re Mr. Perfect with your perfect life and your perfect wife, and… and even your perfect little kids who are perfectly astounding at every little thing that they attempt to do. No way.

    “I think so.” It was a halfhearted lie at best; concocted through elaborate repetition of denial over a certain love I hold for a certain someone else, a man I’m certain is far above leaving his perfect wife just to be with Plain-Old-Ordinary-Me.

    And when I fall asleep in my almost perfect bedroom, lulled into almost perfect dreams by the almost perfect background noise just outside of my almost perfect house, I dream of his perfect hands caressing my cheeks, his perfect arms encircling my body to pull me close to his perfectly toned chest. But when I turn to gaze into his perfect blue eyes, I instead see dark orbs of the blackest pitch, accented by their owner’s dark hair and contrasted by his pale skin.

    Even in my dreams, he loves me not.