“Sorry, she could say, I might be the 100% perfect girl for you, but you’re not the 100% boy for me. It could happen. And if I found myself in that situation, I’d probably go to pieces.” - Haruki Murakami, “On Seeing The 100% Perfect Girl One Beautiful April Morning“
One rainy March afternoon, on a less busy area of Market St. just outside of “downtown” San Francisco, I walked past the 100% perfect boy.
I mean, he’s cute, I guess. Tall—well, taller than me. And it wasn’t like he had the perfect set of clothes, or anything. Just pants, a plaid shirt, a red jacket. It wasn’t raining at the moment.
He had hair, but I’m not sure I could tell you what color.
I tell someone, “I saw the 100% perfect boy today.”
“Did you talk to him?”
No. He was going somewhere. I think he saw me—most…
The cafe had seen its share of wanderers: the usual hipster crowd, the visiting consultants, even the long-term migrants stopping in for a sandwich and coffee. Said always told Michy to give them a discount, that the shop could spare the money “in exchange for the good word”. Michy had always thought Said must have grown up poor, but then she found out that his mom was a dentist and his dad was in marketing—the picture of upper-middle class. So much for that theory.
The cafe had wooden walls and floors, but a line of uneven black bricks paved the…