(Short Story) The Perfect Woman
“There’s not some finite amount of pain inside us. Our bodies and minds just keep manufacturing more of it.”
- Tom Perrotta, The Leftovers
Jackson was ashamed every time he clicked on the Asian category on the porn website he frequented on a nightly basis. Every set of terms and conditions he accepted before masturbating away his loneliness only sucked him further into the black hole that was his own life. Jackson would browse the Internet for hours, reading articles about movies, watching reviews of films and books, buying the films and books, downloading and absorbing everything through the medium of ones and zeroes. He’d had a girlfriend once; shed even had a beating heart like his own.
It all started with a knock at the door.
“Hello?” he asks opening the door.
“Hey,” she begins, “I’m not from around here, I’m really lost, I was just wondering if you could give me directions to the university?”
Jackson studied her face. She was quietly beautiful. She’d never been the center of attention. She didn’t know how to be the center of attention.
“Uh,” Jackson stuttered, “it’s, just around the corner.”
Before he knew what he was doing he was standing on the door mat just outside his house throwing his hands in the direction of the university as the woman walked back down the pathway towards her car.
“If you drive for about half a mile down the road and then take the first left you should see it,” he added.
Jackson watched her car disappear around the corner unable to shake away the image of her face from his mind as if it were a photograph framed in forever in his periphery. He knew every detail of her face from the dimples around her mouth to the light freckles around her eyes to the curve of her bangs and the brown inflection inside her blue eyes. Jackson knew her face like he’d seen everyday of his life.
At work the following day he told his friend Mike about the woman while standing over the coffee machine in the faculty lounge, hoping that he would be able to tell him who she was, after all, Jackson did work at the university.
“I think she’s a student,” Mike replied.
“A student?” Jackson asked.
“Yeah, um,” continued Mike, “she’s new, a transfer from Oxford I think.”
Jackson sipped his coffee, black with two spoons of sugar.
“What’s she studying?” he asked.
“Literature I think, she might be in your class,” replied Mike.
Jackson rubbed his little finger over the cold ring at the base of his mug, glancing over the quote on its front. Would you be in anyway offended if I told you that you seem to me to be in every way the visible personification of absolute perfection?
“Maybe,” he said picturing her face.
Jackson began a lecture on the nature of true love, the topic of his thesis. He eulogised his own loss of belief in love the way one might talk about a dead relative. He discussed, with a fondness, how he used to feel about marriage. Then it all changed in an instant as though a switch had been flipped in his mind. It wasn’t until the lecture hall had cleared that he saw for sure that it was her.
“Do you really believe that?” she asked.
“It’s you,” he spoke with an excited verve.
“It is,” she laughed, “it is me. Why didn’t you tell me you worked here when I asked you for directions?”
He walked up the stairs towards her, dazed and entrapped.
“To be honest with you I was quite taken back,” he said.
“Oh yeah? Why’s that?” she asked.
He sat in the chair next to her and watched the lecture hall from the perspective of a student, looking out towards the board below.
“Because I can swear that I’ve met you before.”
She smiled the sort of smile that agreed with him, she recognised him too.
“And I’ll bet you don’t know where from do you?” she added.
He laughed, turning to look at her.
“Jackson,” he said.
“Felicity,” she replied.
They shook hands and held each other’s gaze for more than a moment. He remembered how cold her hands were, how her skin felt smooth like it was new.
It was well over a week after their first encounter that Jackson managed to build up the courage to ask her out and when he did it was in his typical awkward and tense way as though he were asking her a personal question.
“So where are you from?” he asked leaning into the table because that was something he was told he should do on dates.
“I’m from London, originally, but I moved around a lot with my mum,” she replied.
“Just your mum?” he asked, immediately regretting his question, “god, I can’t believe I just asked that, you don’t have to answer.”
She smiled leaning into the table.
“It’s fine,” she replied, “yeah, it was just me and my mum.”
Jackson watched as her eyes flicked back and forth between his own with a calm security.
“I only ask because I’m the same, my dad left when I was six, I think,” he replied. There was a moment of silent solidarity between the pair as the waiter approached the table.
“Hey,” he said, “you both ready to order?”
Jackson nodded.
“Yeah, I’ll have the cheese burger, with fries, and no salad if that’s okay,” said Felicity.
“Uh,” he looked over at her, smiling, “I’ll have the same, hold back the salad, thanks.”
Felicity turned back to him, smiling, always smiling.
“So, what made you choose English Literature?” asked Jackson.
Felicity’s eyes flicked up from her hand and back towards Jackson.
“I don’t really know, its just always been something I enjoyed, I’m drawn to it, I guess,” she replied.
Jackson had drunk a glass and a half of wine before the meal came.
“Here you go,” said the waiter, placing their food on to the table.
“Enjoy.”
Jackson used his fork with his right hand and his knife with his left and liked his food separated on the plate.
“OCD you know,” he said answering Felicity’s confused look.
“Don’t worry, I’m the same,” she replied.
As they began to eat Jackson finished his wine, which was topped up by Felicity as if by instinct.
“Are you trying to get me drunk?” he laughed.
“Of course not,” she smiled, “I just hate seeing an empty glass.”
Their date was perfect. It was scripted. Stolen straight out of a romantic comedy. There were moments of laughter, moments of calm. Moments of connection. There was no doubt that there would be another date. He was falling in love with her after all.
“You know we’ll have to keep this a secret from the university,” said Jackson running his fingers through her thick brown hair and smiling at the way it fell onto the pillow.
“Yeah but isn’t there something sexy about that?” she asked, “a secret affair?”
He laughed.
“You like that do you?” asked Jackson, “keeping it all a secret, the professor and the student?”
She sat up, the bed sheet slipping down to her waist revealing her breasts.
“I do.”
He leaned forward holding her gaze.
“You find it hot?” he asked.
He threw her back onto the bed, holding her hands down into the mattress while looking down at her with her brown hair arranged like a nest around her head. She nodded slightly, submissive.
“I want you to cum on my face,” she said.
Jackson recoiled slightly, loosing eye contact.
“Is everything okay?” she asked. “You like that?”
He looked over her body. Perfect. The dimple above her left breast. The smooth stomach. The lightly tanned skin. The thin legs. Perfect.
“Yeah,” he replied, “are you sure?”
Jackson now had what he had always wanted but still felt the way he did when he watched porn. He still felt within himself as he fucked her. He still felt within the browser of his computer.
“You’ve got a six hour day today?” said Felicity, monotone and correct.
Jackson nodded, only detecting her tone afterwards.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Fine,” she said, forcing a smile, “just making sure you know.”
She handed him coffee.
“Black, two sugars,” she said, smiling.
He took the coffee off her and ran his finger around the cool ring at its base. He noticed the quote. Would you be in anyway offended if I told you that you seem to me to be in every way the visible personification of absolute perfection?
She watched him, closely, tilting her head to the side the way a child might as they learn something new.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
He looked up at her, unsettled by her gaze, unable to forget.
“I’m not sure.”
He saw Felicity’s smiling face in the crowd and remembered her face in bed that night, submissive. He remembered the coffee. He remembered everything she had done.
“Love, is something mankind has created,” he said.
He remembered her look of confusion as he recoiled from her. How she didn’t seem to understand him. How uncanny he felt when he did what he had always wanted to do to the type of woman he had always wanted to be with. Felicity smiled through the lecture, unchallenged.
That day he sat watching people from the upstairs café in the city centre, gazing out through the window with his coffee, black with two sugars. Watching the people move the way only people can. Random steps in random directions. Not just sensing objects or routes but feeling the concrete beneath their feet and the cold on their skin. Knowing when to say sorry to someone in a doorway. Knowing when to step inside because they’re too cold. He watched the silent conversations develop below. A husband and wife pushing their child in a pram. An elderly couple strolling into a book store. Tourists feeling and marvelling at the city before them with its statues and great grey structures. Feeling not just understanding. Existing and not just knowing.
Back in the house that evening Felicity looked at him with the name nubile grin as they sat on the sofa reading with coffee.
“Why didn’t you call me yesterday?” asked Felicity with the same confused look.
“I missed you,” she continued, smiling softly and tilting her head, “we can go watch that movie you like.”
Jackson continued to watch her eyes, unblinking.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“No, I’m not.”
She tilted her head.
“Why?” she asked.
He didn’t know. She reached out to place her hand in his palm and knocked her coffee, black two sugars, onto her lap.
“Shit,” he said, “are you okay?”
She stroked his hand with her thumb tilting her head.
“The coffee?” he asked. “Did you feel that?”
She looked confused.
“What coffee?” she said. “Would you like coffee? Black, two sugars, just how you like it.”
She smiled and tilted her head.
“Is everything okay?” she asked.
He watched her eyes, blue, perfect and unblinking.
“Who are you?” he asked.
She laughed and tilted her head.
“I’m Felicity,” she said, “your girlfriend.”
Jackson felt the cool of her skin against his in bed. He turned to watch her, eyes closed, perfectly still. He studied the curves of her body under the white bed sheets. She was the perfect height. She was the perfect age. She was the perfect ethnicity. All for him. He slowly slipped out of the bed, careful and quiet. Her eyes opened.
“Are you okay?” he heard from behind.
He turned watching her standing over the broken mug from earlier. Would you be in anyway offended if I told you that you seem to me to be in every way the visible personification of absolute perfection?
“Who are you?” he shouted.
“I’m Felicity, your girlfriend,” she replied.
“How do you know so much about me?”
She walked closer to him lifting her hand to his face. He felt her cold skin touch his own.
“I love you Jackson,” she said, smiling and tilting her head.
“How do you know so much about out me!” he shouted.
“You accepted the terms and conditions Jackson,” she replied, stopping and glaring at him blankly, “I’m here to love you Jackson.”
Jackson looked at her, as she stood in front of him, dead still. Emotionless. He took her hand in his and lowered it down so he could see the flesh of her palm. He saw the red that had gathered in a jagged gash in her skin and he saw what the red was hiding. He saw her body beneath the skin. He saw what she truly was. She looked down at him. A perfect face. A perfect body. All for him.
“Is everything okay?”
