The world is full of cute boys I could not give a damn about, but they're fun to watch. There's Victor, with a crooked mouth and hair gone gray three decades too soon. College boys studying and methodically underlining nearly every sentence in the book, one with ink spots all over his shirt and hands, the important parts, I guess. The sulky coffee guy in thick glasses who would rather be anywhere else but yelling CHAI, SOY LATTE over the yapping of a roomful of people on cellphones, but who dredges up one brief real smile for me.
These handsome strangers mean less than nothing to me because today the world sucks and there's no convincing me otherwise. I still dutifully write down their details, because it all comes in handy at some point. Or it's just to keep my hands busy and to keep me from making things worse.
Things don't look up until I read an article outlining ten ways a man can become a better man for his woman. It's written by a man and appears in a men's magazine, so it's none of this "mow the lawn and take me to Paris" crap you'd find in Redbook or Cosmo. I read the article because dude is funny and because I'm not used to seeing the self-betterment approach in a mainstream magazine. Much more common are articles on how to change your man, or how to put up with your woman. This is humble, practical advice that makes sense.
It takes me until number 8 to realize that every item on the list is something Logan does as a matter of habit. I finish reading and backtrack to make sure. Does he kiss me on top of the head? All the time. Take me as I am? Yep. Come to my defense? Act glad to see me? Laugh at my stupid jokes? He does, and, on days like this, he does everything he can think of to make me feel better.
I realize, not for the first time, that I've got a very, very good boyfriend. I don't have an off switch, more's the pity, so I don't shake the terrible mood right then. But I tuck these facts away for future reference, meaning, from now on.
