I knew he was the perfect boy for me the instant I saw him.

We first met at Macy’s. I saw him in the men’s section, proudly doing his job, and I walked up to him and said “You are the most beautiful boy I have ever seen.” He said nothing, only smiled, and wrote down his phone number.

I call him every night. He doesn’t talk much, but he’s such a great listener.

Sometimes, when we’re together, I just sit and admire him. I run my fingers across his smooth, pale skin, or play with the hair so carefully plastered to his scalp.

He gave me his jacket once, when we were outside in the wind and rain. In my ungloved hands it felt just fine, but when I put it on, it was cold like it hadn’t been worn in weeks. I never did seem to be able to warm it up, but he smiled and I took it as a promise that I’d be okay.

Sometimes I sit in his lap and he just strokes my hair slowly, carefully, at about sixteen strokes per minute. I press a hand against his chest and tell him I can feel his heartbeat, and I swear I can hear him laugh and murmur, “Funny you should mention that….”

Sometimes I wish I could open up his beautiful head and see what he’s thinking. Then again, I may be afraid of what I find. And besides, his actions speak loud enough that I won’t ask for words.