Jojo had never had her off his mind.
She was like the faint ticking of the heart, he constantly felt yet had never laid eyes on.
Like his heart he was definitely sure of her existence, somewhere just waiting for him.
Just like the heart, as ugly and disproportional organ it was in reality, the fanatic human illusion had somehow modified her into the heart figure we now know.
There had always been this nagging natural feeling that somewhere out there was his exact opposite, his missing piece, struggling like he was to find the other half.
The one to reaffirm the reversible theory of unity of opposites; calm when he was raging, vibrant when he sulked, poised when he was unsure...
and the vice versa complementing each other, completing the void, the two imperfect beings fitting perfectly to implement the essence of life, love.
The one with the combination to unlock his thoughts; that is what he called chemistry! Some just know how to work on the nerves, wasting valuable time plotting to wreck rather than click.
That was a different thing, maybe geometry; he never understood the real purpose of all that formula stuff anyway.
He remembered the first time he lost interest in that field, it was decades ago in the fourth grade when a teacher drew a tiny triangle with a couple of numbers around it and looked around to choose Jojo of all people to come forward and find the area of the polygon.
Jojo stood up hesitantly to contemplate to his self on how to work on the area, but somehow his instincts interjected" you are never going to fit into that triangle, nor anything you ever own would, so why waste your time!" He had failed every math class ever since! But he was always good with his money; that was some math! Talking off numbers, he had been in search of the one, passing by one after the other hoping to finally find the one...
but then a lot of ones never led to the quest of that illusive one.
He sure was tired of the endless monologues.
Wished he had that someone to turn the exact thoughts into constructive dialogue.
The one whose fart would not ever bother: the one he would wait until she woke up from a long night, to share the only cigarette left in the room.
The one who would be as pleasing as the sight of a dripping cold beer, after a long day, every day! In his mind though, she had been like nature, changing colors and moods to suit the season.
His season being fueled by his imagination and frustration following his ever changing vision for his passion! She was dark and lovely one minute, light and moody the next, skinny and bossy at times then chubby submissive the next.
Her construction though was immaculate, more like a German design.
Updated and upgraded to suit the time, she remained fresh in his mind.
Her life span lapsed at the speed of light to match his ever vivid, yet livid fantasy.
From a budding tulip to a seasoned rose in a space of a minute...
she was everything.
She never failed to amaze him! The real ones, forget the real ones, they never come close to her.
Compared to her they were like a batch of defected goods from the same factory.
Just waiting for a recall for some adjustment, till then they remain surplus, overrated and overproduced.
At times he felt like he was wasting some precious time, with this batch.
It was not as if he had the patience anyway, she was constantly on his mind.
conquering his soul, obsessing and pressing every stride...
he just wished for her to know how many minutes of every hour he dedicated to her, like a cable TV, reality only checks in for its 15 minutes by the hour to commercialize his thoughts.
Just like one could not wait for the same ad, running over and over the TV, to end; he couldn't wait for her thoughts to creep back in.
Reality was just a cruel distraction: more like a rude interruption, from the real version in his head.
He knew she had no substitution.
A series that never end..
..
A character so flawless..
..
But was she out there? Or was she just a figment of his wild imagination, he had always wondered and wandered.
Who knew maybe Da Vinci had the same obsession about the women of his dreams that he had to paint them as angels on the domes of every church, to which millions still prostrate unknowingly.
Jojo's angel, after years of wear and tear had finally been chiseled immaculately.
She was not like the vanilla miniature decorating the living room next to every candle in most households.
Though he had nothing against any color, he was open for all; always one love in the air, no discrimination! 'But we all had our preferences' he figured, the one that kept one awake! Jojo was talking about the real one! He figured the real and the beginning was natural.
The natural is earthly brown, the all bearing.
Glistening brown skin, he was sure everybody loved that color naturally.
There is this serene moment he had observed among every race, specially the women, whenever they saw an ad of their favorite chocolate bar.
And the delicate way they held the bar, de javu where had he seen the same look! That was why he loved who he was! 'The deeper the root, the sweeter the fruit', wise men have said! Getting back to the angel, she had Deep engaging eyes, parted inviting lips, long caressing fingers, feisty and intelligent personality, boobs he was indecisive as they all looked bigger when uncovered.
The behind though definitely had to stick out, with its own distinct rhythm, bouncing like pendulums in motion.
That was the angel he always had on his mind.
he sure was not asking too much! Just the chemistry is all that mattered, he was tired of the drama.
Jojo was somehow sure his Angel had the exact same reflection of the image God had for his.
The black God! Sexiness did not take anything away from her divinity anyway.
It was not objectifying womanhood; it was merely flaunting the obvious.
He had observed some lifeless, unnatural drabness about some of the angels dawning from the walls of churches and many living rooms, he had always wandered if they were somehow meant to stifle any sexual arousal in the subjects.
Or is it the fear of the wrath of God! If he had been Da Vinci, the sex appeal would have taken prominence in his works.
" Lets face it, millions still be flocking to church for one or the other reason.
It was always about statistics anyway" Jojo had suggested to himself in those isolated moments he had been to church unable to relate to any of the figures looming all around.
Lately though he had been feeling a tingling sensation, the kind reserved for that one and only.
He had always suspected if maybe people where actually in love with the idea of love and the perfect pairing.
For him perfection was a state attained metaphysically, in reality it was always a case of compromise.
But out of nowhere had appeared this being, the theory of unity of opposites was completely defied.
She was more of a feminine reflection of his self.
With a finesse touch, she was as spontaneous wreck as he was, lapsing in and out of reality like he did, she had long accepted her devils as her company, in solitude.
Misery did love company, but they had coped well on their own.
But there was nothing like having someone really feel the pain, not just the gain.
It was not perfect fit, but he knew the exact limitations.
Accepting one's imperfection was the perfection that curbs ones expectation, he had realized.
Maybe two wrongs make one right, he had figured.
No compromise required; if it worked out, he would give it all he had! if not, well he was used to it anyway! Regular irregularity was indeed a rhythm that never needed any adjustment, like he had always suspected.
But fantasies, as beautiful and engaging as they were, often were well of the mark!