If I knew her, I couldn’t do it. If I knew her, the fantasy would burst like a troll in sunlight. True, I have seen her once. But her face made no lasting impression.
Now my masochistic heart paints pictures in my head.
She is strong and intelligent. She is funny. She is in touch with her dark side. She is attractive. Not strikingly beautiful, but stylish and athletic with a decent face. She loves him. And he loves her.
She is me. But I’m not her.