It's much less interesting, but I'll give you the short version. I was in my early twenties, and she was gorgeous. She used to hang out with my band, and we'd all get high and I'd stare at her and she'd stare back at me. She was cool in a way that I'd never seen but always kind of imagined women in big cities would naturally attain.
We went to her place a handful of times and she was everything good about sex and women and I couldn't believe that she was letting me breath the same air as her and touch my lips to hers. She had smooth, pale skin and fine blonde hairs below her navel that were only rendered visible with the right combination of light and proximity, like the afternoon I laid my head on her naked stomach and watched the sunlight through the window trace a path across her.
Her nose was too big and I loved it. Her voice was too deep and I loved that too. She had grace and the most perfect self-confidence, even when she told a joke that wasn't funny and I was the only one laughing and I could tell she didn't care. Even when I told her that I wasn't ready for anything serious and I wanted to stay single, but we could totally still be fuckbuddies. She was even still pretty when she cried about that.
She was perfect and sweet, too. She never had an unkind word to say about anybody. Even when I told her to fuck off, even when I called her a slut because she fucked somebody else after I told her it wasn't serious. She just sulked in the passenger's seat of my car while I fumed in the driver's, hoping she felt terrible, feeling good that she did.
She was brave, which is something that so few of us are. She wasn't afraid to take risks, like when she moved to California with her Yoga instructor boyfriend who has a chiseled jaw and a 6 pack you could grate cheese with and god I just wish he was fucking dead because I want her again even though he's better for her. She's happier with him than I'd ever be able to make her, and him dying would hurt her immeasurably and I still hope he gets hit by a car tomorrow.