Mr. Right

Why wait when I can make my own?

Sometimes, he’s blond. Most often, he’s dark-haired and his eyes are predominantly green. Occasionally, they’re some shade of blue, deep and intense, and when I was younger, they were almost always brown; a rich, pure chocolate brown that weakened my knees and my resolve in equal measure.

He is as comfortable in denim as he is in Armani silk, and when he does wear jeans, they-fit-well.

He’s wealthy, of course. Mysteriously so. He drives no less than eight cylinders except when he’s on horseback, and then his steed is as sleek and powerful as his Jaguar/Lamborghini/classic Camaro.

He is confident, not arrogant.

He is compassionate, not gullible.

He is fierce, not violent. His anger is justified and he does not love easily. When he does offer his heart, he does it thoughtfully, with some conditions (he is human, after all), but nothing I can neither handle nor expect, myself.

We understand each other. We come together with affection and passion; we argue, inevitably, but agree to disagree by way of mutual respect. He’s a learned man, not an intellectual, being street-smart rather than book-smart.

He is a king. A warrior. A rock star. A secret agent. A bartender. A drifter. A vampire. He is not always as I imagine him to be at the beginning, but he is always my hero.