I loved the image that I had of him. The one I had in my head before he even met me or uttered a single word to me in person. With crazy hair he couldn't be bothered to tame, and that silly shy grin, as he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose so it framed his bright beady eyes perfectly. "Hello." I like that word. "Hello," he said. No. He said, "Hi." Yes. "Hi." As if acting casual, as if trying too hard to be effortlessly cool and intellectual and failing miserably.
I love the image that I have of him presently even more. With his fringe roughly pushed up with a black hairband and the rest of it tied in a pathetically small ponytail as he cringes his eyes and gazes at me in an attempt to act handsomely seductive and then giving up altogether and unconsciously pouting like a forgotten little child.
I really like what he said half jokingly- that our relationship is based on a pack of lies, and every day, as we spend time with each other, we set them straight. It really is true, how you fall in love with an idea of a person; how you feel that there is so much more to a person than what you see before you but you just can’t quite put your finger on it. And the more you try to demystify it all, the more you realize that the illusionary idea is worth nothing compared to the incredibly multidimensional diamond in your cupped hands.
You love all the things you discover by surprise- his completely unabashed physical attraction towards you, his affectionate declarations inspired by cheesy love songs, his sudden theatrical outbursts as he slips into different character caricatures, his terrible taste in music, his ability to eat every three hours, spend two hundred bucks on books and philosophize about sex and shitting.