Perfect

It's a fine line - these stories I tell about H and me. He shakes his head when he hears what I've said about him. "You always make me sound so good," he says.

"You ARE so good," I answer.

"I'm not THAT good," he replies. He talks with his hands and now he's saying, "I hope when people read it, they know it's just a moment."

He pushes back from the table and looks at me. "You know," he says. "I hope they don't read what you write and look at the person they love and miss their own moments."

And I get what he's saying. I totally get it. Because I've read the stories about other people's moments and wished they were my own. I've tried to make H fit in to someone else's moment and missed the perfect moments he and I make together. I've squandered our own, beautiful moments by wishing someone else's story was my own.  That's why H shakes his head when he hears what I say about him.

Because he isn't perfect. No one is. It's just that every now and then, we stumble on a moment that is beautifully, breathtakingly wonderful. And those perfect moments are the ones worth talking about.