A woman can become dear to you very quickly, so quickly that you realize that her simple admittance into your life is a veiled hope that she’ll love you. So she comes around and she’s a little bit crazy, a little irrational, a little bit sweet, and a little warm. All the elements she is amount to a humming balance when inter-sectioned with you. Most of all she listens to you, interprets what you say for deeper meaning, and cannot sleep without speaking with you. One day you find her life propped up against your’s, and it makes you so privately responsible. Then comes Saturday in May, the pageantry of it’s graduations, and she comes with nothing else to do but to be near you. Her hand is warm water. Her talk opens the curtains. And she is in your house, breasts and all that damp, perfect skin. She is the siren and you are the city. She has something for you. She insists you try it. Close your eyes……So, my perfect woman would have the sexual temperament of Vanessa Del Rio, yet have the political fire of Harriet Tubman. She’d have the piety of a nun, that uncommon ability to hone in on me and flower in that small space,…to find, for us, a world in her hand. She’d be tall and have the sense of humor of my homeboys. She’d sing and lay with her breasts out in the moonlight. She wouldn’t be afraid to cry. Sometimes she would come to me hurt, her face about to burst, and I’d hide her in my embrace. Other times she’d come rapping and acting a fool. The day would love her and light the world looking for her, and the night would comb its dark velvets and try to steal her from me with its embarrassment of stars. Winter would kiss her, dress her in fine wools and rub her fingers. Spring would appeal to her vanity with its plaids of rain and bright water-mirror mornings, and summer would give her embroidered linen blouses and pants and carnivals at dusk. And among other men and a universe of beckoning exclamations, she would seek me, cling to me, kiss me, then go back out into her world of competing admirers.