The Importance of Being Hopeful

My future husband stares at me from across the tube. Or maybe at the map behind me. Or at the legs of a woman. He has wispy black hair. I think. I’m not exactly sure what wispy black hair is, but if anyone were to have it, I’m sure it would be him. This wispy black hair frames his dark complexion and brooding eyes that would put Mr. Darcy to shame.

At first glance, his mouth seems ordinary enough, but, if you knew him like I did, it is quite telling, alive with stories and memories.

Like the time we went to his parents and he told them that he couldn’t live a lie any longer. He was so terrified and strong. I remember my parents’ reaction (picture Hillary Clinton’s face after losing Florida), but perhaps that was because the age gap. He is older than me, but with his electric energy and my aversion to youth culture, we seem to meet in the middle at the compromising age of 35. I remember all of those sunrises we stayed up to watch. Nights spent at his flat eating pizza and watching Sex and the City reruns. I can truly imagine myself falling in love with him. And maybe I am.

In one such memory, he asks:

"Do you remember when I pulled a ligament during some particularly steamy shower sex?"

"I do Michael."

And we laugh.

This is followed by Michael (actually—maybe something American…like Johnson), Johnson enveloping me in his huge arms and feeding me strawberries in a *very* sensual manner.

Our bodies fit so perfectly. Like some wise old dress maker had interwoven some tiny, insignificant boy with ill-proportioned thighs and a face with acne resembling a Jackson Pollock, with some divine and chiselled specimen. A man of importance, without whom the world would notice. And when we lie together, his importance seems to rub off on me. I don’t feel like empty space. I fill his arms. I matter to him. Maybe he’ll touch my shoulder or stare longingly into my eyes.

I feel myself becoming aroused and try to busy myself with visions of facehuggers and grandmother and faceshuggers hugging grandmother’s face. I remind myself that our relationship is not purely sexual. It is based on trust and understanding and intimacy. He is the moon to my stars, the words to my sentences and the salad to my thin person, the Barbra Streisand to my—

And then the tube stops and the love of my life exits to continue his life in his tiny flat in Piccadilly Circus with his wife—Emma. Perhaps he has a child. Or two. Or three if he really sucks at using contraception. Working 9 to 5, to afford his daughter’s karate lessons and his son’s ballet classes (oh how liberal) and Emma’s spa trips and the care of some elderly aunt. And the tube moves on, leaving him behind, as if TFL doesn’t even care about my love life. My eyes wonder over the swarm of eligible bachelors who pour in at Oxford Street, with part of me still mourning the life I had dreamt of with Michael (shit, sorry I mean Johnson) until I see a new man, dressed in a big white shirt. He is bald with tiny sweat patches. He is staring vacantly and listening to music (probably Kate Bush—maybe we can start a tribute band?!). His smile holds pearly white teeth and a wicked sense of humour. I think.

And by the time we pull into Regent’s Park, a new smile and a new dream has washed over me.