I’ve gotten close on an eye match, though, as crazy and impossible as that sounds, but it’s the nose and mouth and mustache, and most of all, it’s the chin that eludes me. Five foot nine and a buck seventy in weight – those are important factors, to be sure, however, it really is the apple-cheeked face I seek. And the mop of thick black hair with flecks of salt, yeah, that’s important, too. So far, in two years and three months, no one is even close to what I’m looking for.
I don’t think I even noticed I was doing it during the blackout but I was, most definitely. Then it became a game, one that I know he’d approve, and every moment I’m out in the world, I look. I’ve already checked off every man in my office building and none of them are close except for one with a similar puppiness in the eyes and prematurely gray hair, to boot. He’s as close a Discovery as I’m going to get but his proportions are taller, and honestly, it throws the whole thing off. Even if I were to find the exact match, the clothes would be wrong and that childlike wonder would be absent. I know.
What am I going to do when and if I do see him? I don’t know. Probably just stand there, stare, and imagine.
