I first saw her in the Uptown section of Minneapolis. Her looks got to me, what more can I say? She had strawberry blonde hair, cut short, but with what seemed the potential to be wavy if she'd let it grow. Her nose was slightly too big for her face. Her skin was pale. And she had the body of a runner or dancer. Lithe and graceful. Minneapolis is full of attractive blondes, a happy consequence of its Nordic heritage. A lot of these goddesses were just that, however. Goddesses, unattainable symbols of cool Scandinavian perfection. She was different. From the first time I saw her, I sensed an approachability about her. Good thing, because I would never had the courage to talk to her otherwise.
Not that I did approach her right off. No, instead, I kept her image in my head, and thought of her a lot during my working days. She, and her pretty face and sleek body, were the best part of a world I imagined for myself. A world where she and I would travel, and drink wine, and have all-consuming sex every night. Yet also a world where the next morning she'd rest her head on my chest before we rose for work and tell me her hopes and plans for the day, for herself and for us. Is that love? Probably not. I didn't even know her.
A month or two passed, and with it the last dregs of another Minneapolis winter. If you've not lived in the north, you cannot understand the excitement that comes with those first days of spring. The warmth you'd craved, the birds you'd forgotten, the grass you'd missed. These things and more, a hedonistic embrace of life's pleasures. And with it came her again. It's always startling when reality and fantasy collide, and by this time, she had grown to full fantasy proportions in my mind. At night I dreamed of her tight, naked body next to mine. I visualized her small breasts, how they would taste and feel. I pictured her pretty face as she rode on top of me into the night, my hands on her ass, my cock reaching deep inside her. These thoughts were nightly, often daily, companions.
So when I saw her walking out of a yoga studio one Saturday morning, I gasped. There she was, a little disheveled with strands of wispy blonde hair in her eyes. She was walking towards me on the sidewalk, oblivious to the role she played in my secret life. I watched her walk by. And then I followed her. I needed to know more about her. After ten or twelve blocks, she came to a nice old brick apartment building near the lakes. I watched as she said hello to her neighbors, a father and two little girls who greeted her with laughs and smiles. I pictured her coming home to our house, with me and our daughters greeting her as she came. I loved her at that moment with the purity one loves an ideal. She walked through the front door of her building, and disappeared.
What is it about another person that makes them our obsession? I don't know.
