I can not believe how the months have flown by, and how talking to you now comes almost as naturally as breathing. Almost. I never want to get to a point where I take you for granted in that way. But do you remember when we first started chatting? It’s hard to imagine a time when I didn’t know you so well, when I had questions, and found you an utter mystery.

“What part of the Bay Area?” Berkeley — one of the places I lived growing up. A place I had visited only a few months before, alone, specifically to see a local Bay Area band I’d been hearing about. And lucky I did — it was one of their last shows. How odd that I was plodding around the flats, checking out my old neighborhood, while at the same time you were probably cooking up an amazing meal, or possibly grouting your new bathroom. You were probably curled up in bed with a good book around the time the show started. Maybe asleep by the time I stumbled back to the hotel at 1:00 in the morning. A homeless guy bummed a smoke off me on Telegraph. I hadn’t given it up yet, having just taken up rowing again the week before. Intoxicated college students swarming around the campus were a pain to navigate through, and the sheer volume of garbage they left on the street surprised me (though it should not have) when I got up early that morning.

But five months later we met, at least online. It all seemed incongruous when you confessed you came from the South. I knew you had a story. Guarding our early conversations, you made me tease it out of you in little pieces. And why not? Isn’t that part of the fun? The navigation in unfamiliar territory, the rewards of discovery? Slowly painting a picture in my head of the person I thought you were. My imagination had to fill in a few blanks. I really hadn’t ever internalized height before. As far as I was concerned there are three heights – my height, shorter, and taller. So I really couldn’t picture what your height meant. I had to get out a tape measure and mark it on a wall, and it was still meaningless. No, in fact, my imagination was utterly incapable of aligning itself with reality.

I mean, for some strange reason I pictured you as blonde. And when I confided this guess to you, you were utterly appalled! I don’t know you well enough to know if you have a real problem with blondes, but I can understand now, based on the popular association, why you reacted the way you did. And based on the popular association, I can not understand how I would have guessed you were blonde. My besttheory has me believing you were far too perfect, so my brain filled in some imperfections, one of which imagined your hair a well coifed honey blonde with tasteful highlights. And yeah, we had a good laugh (I hope you were laughing) about the whole thing, but you know I was floored when I saw your picture that first time. I realized, far from a the imperfection manufactured by my cynical mind, you had my dream girl hair.

Did I mention I thought you might be a dogperson?

I’ll not try to write a paean about your perfection. That would be silly, because you’re not perfect. Neither of us is. But so many little favorable discoveries, surprises, each brightens my day. I know this will taper off – it’s already happening – but these sparks have already ignited a fire. Something we can cozy up with together when the nights are cold.