When I was a sophomore in high school, I attended my very first dance. There
was this girl standing across the dance floor wearing a yellow dress. She was
so beautiful.
I didn't have the courage to ask her to dance, perhaps for fear of the long
lonely walk back across the gym floor after being refused. I finally willed
myself to go ask, and then suddenly she was gone, in a fleeting second...she
must have left.
I began to imagine what she must've been like. Her laugh, certainly her kiss.
I still know exactly what that feels like, though I've never felt it.
She's been a figment for 29 years; an imagined standard by which all other
women seem to have fallen terribly short.
How could they not, after I'd individualized her with every quality I so
longed for?
I've never met the girl in the yellow dress. Seeing you [in a yellow
dress], I guess, I just...
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