The vision in perfect, immaculate white grasped Mr Perfect with so much intensity, it was like his perfectly ordered thoughts had been completely removed from his head.
Mr Perfect brought his hand up to steady his hat, as if that action could have helped return his brain to its perfectly empty chamber, but there was nothing he could do about it. He was perfectly stumped.
He watched one perfect ankle cross over a perfect leg sheathed in white linen and then his eyes travelled up to the perfect wrist now stirring the frothy cappuccino in the perfectly shaped china cup on the coffee table (there were odd perfect items in PerfectTown, he acknowledged that, just not very many).
A tiny portion of his brain recognised the need to look left and right as he crossed the road, but Mr Perfect could not bring himself to turn his head one millimetre away from… her.
From the corner of his eye, he saw a large red shape shudder to a stop to his left, accompanied by loud shrieks of abused brakes, but he kept going and put one foot in front of another until he stood just the other side of the plate glass window from her perfect silhouette.
It took a few moments for Mr Perfect to realise that standing was all he was capable of doing at that particular moment and that was far less action than he was accustomed to, but he wasn’t sure what he could do about it. His perfect brain was still searching for the perfect synapses to link one thought to the next.
Just then, she raised her head and glanced straight at him. Mr Perfect looked into her eyes, noting they were the colour of perfectly brewed cocoa, and gulped. She smiled a perfect smile and motioned for him to join her. Still trapped in her gaze, Mr Perfect took a step forward and whacked his forehead loudly on the glass. The pane quivered, but did not break. Neither did Mr Perfect’s head, though he felt the throb of his stupidity echo back and forth within his skull and settle back on his brow in a perfect egg-shaped lump.
Regaining a moderate amount of his composure, Mr Perfect braced himself against the café doorframe and shot her an embarrassed glance. She wore a mask of perfect horror, Mr Perfect thought, and so he had no choice but to enter and apologise for disturbing her perfect afternoon, just as a well-bred, perfect gentleman should.
Inside, every table was occupied. Funny how he’d never noticed how perfectly stylish this establishment looked, Mr Perfect mused, but he became self-conscious as soon as he realised every pair of eyes in the room was turned his way. He averted his eyes and turned them to search for her. There she was, half-standing, looking for him, nothing but worry in her cocoa eyes.
Her perfect lips stretched in a dazzling smile when she saw him make his way perfectly effortlessly through the gaps between the tables and stop by her side.
“I’m sorry,” they spoke in perfect synchronization.
Their smiles were mirror images of each other. Mr Perfect rather liked that.
“May I?” he asked, pointing to the spare chair at her table.
Her eyes narrowed slightly and one brow shot up before she spoke.