made of idiosyncrasies

I asked you out for coffee. You smiled and said you didn’t like coffee, so we got milkshakes instead. You recommended the coffee ones.

And with that I was sucked into your strange, vibrant, inside out world, unable to escape and unwilling to try.

When I had first met you, you were rainbow – you’d been teaching a children’s art class and one of the kids splattered paint on you. Instead of getting mad you painted her nose orange.

“You can’t do that, you’re a teacher!” the kids shrieked happily.

“No I’m not!” you replied, flinging your arms towards the ceiling. “I’m an artist!”

You were promptly brought to the ground in a barrage of paint. Laughter filled the room, but yours was the loudest.

I fell in love with you right then, and you only got better. You scrunched up your nose when you were happy, and you loved the sound of pencils scratching against paper. You said that the older and more beat-up a book was, the better it was. You had the same philosophy about shoes. You owned a guitar that you couldn’t play and a tv that didn’t work, and your gleaming windows were filled with flowers.

I wanted to describe you, to tell you that you were absolutely perfect, but somehow perfection didn’t become you. It was your lack of it that made you so incredible. So I struggled, searching my mind for a description that didn’t exist. I could only think of one sentence – I wrote it on the bathroom mirror while you were taking a shower, and I could hear your delighted laugh when you read it.

“You’re made of idiosyncrasies.”

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