Wyatt, with long curly dark brown hair surfing on top of the waves that were his shoulders, had pouty petal lips and a light scruffy beard that looked as though it had been sprinkled onto his face perfectly. He wore black thick-rimmed coke bottle glasses so that he could read, leather jackets and low torn jeans so that he wouldn't be arrested in public and clunky boots or skinny tight shoes so that his feet didn't hurt from the pavement. He lived in an apartment on the top floor of a building, he had the rooftop to himself and the rooftop had him for itself. He planted figs and pomegranates and bananas and tomatoes and mangos and he had a palm tree or two or three, no, two. He draped white christmas lights from tree to tree and it gave his rooftop a beautifully hazy feel when it got dark out. Inside he had bean bag chairs and hammock chairs instead of traditional furniture, and he loved to sit on the floor. He sunk into his furniture and got lost in it. He was very tall, thin, lanky, whatever. He had gotten used to people having to crane their necks to see his eyes; he had gotten used to having to tilt his head to the side when walking through doorways, always careful not to bump and cause a bruise. Wyatt read about spirituality and religion and Buddha and earth and space and prose but never love. He rented documentaries that opened his eyes and his heart and he let his dog lick his fingers after he ate chicken wings and let him sleep on the couch with him, too. He went to yoga and kick boxing and chuckled at the chitter chattering old lady birds who struggled in the classes but giggled away at their frail failing old bodies anyway and he wished women his age had the wisdom and self confidence that they had achieved.Wyatt was the kind of guy who would drive you to the beach and lie there bored, pretending to read a book, but was really watching you with his peripheral vision and smiling into the pages thinking about how madly in love with you he is, only to throw his book and chase after you and dip you underwater and kiss your hair. Except for the fact that he had never been that guy and dreaded the thought that maybe he never would be. Wyatt was diffident, silly, goofy and playful, yet careful and meaningful. He would pick you up and tickle you, or mimic you, or stick his tongue out at you, and stop when you had had enough. He was bashful, timid, shy, gawky. Could never talk to a girl and would smile a lot in the presence of one. Girls seemed to like him, and he didn't know what to do with power like that. So they would leave.

Maggy was a fiery redhead, her hair short in a pixie cut, like a human cherry lollipop. She was tiny in every way, a big dwarf, people said, although she was not a dwarf. Agents approached her for acting gigs as a fairy or a hobbit or a nymph because her long-for-her-height limbs appeared to dangle from her body like a broken statue. But she would just straighten her lips into a sly smile and bat her long eyelashes, turning away and laughing later with her friends. She wore long dangly earrings and flowing dresses with wild patterns that swayed at her ankles and lingering cloth bags that she hung over one shoulder. Her shoes were always all natural and biodegradable, her face without any product. She had mossy green eyes and occasionally wore small, green glasses. She giggled during horror films--having to show ID to enter, proving she was not, in fact, a teenager--and sat focused during documentaries. Sheswooned over romantic comedies and she loved to read romance novels and poetry.Maggy had a love for rabbits and animal lovers. She let her rabbits run free in the house and didn't get mad when they left droppings on the floor. She lived in a cute little one story hobbit house, made out of bamboo and mud, that was full of flowers and candles. She had swinging benches out front and out back and a pond and flowers sprouted and bird feeders swung all around. She fed stray anythings and everythings.Maggy wanted a man who wasn't brainwashed by the media, by what his old man taught him. A man who didn't hide behind bulging muscles and no emotion. She wanted a man who was spiritual and emotional and prudent and sincere and worthwhile. Maggy knew what she wanted and knew what she deserved and wasn't willing to settle for anything that fell short. Traditional "bad boys" and buff men were always attracted to her, looking for something small that they could throw around for a bit. She didn't care about body type, but she could read a person like a book and wanted a soft boy. A silly one that could make her smile just with a touch or a look and that could light up any moment of her life no matter how upset she was.

Wyatt, carrying his blue yoga mat under one arm and eating a mint ice cream cone with his free hand on his way to yoga class,was walking down the street on a sunny day, watching the tops of people's heads bob up and down with each step. Maggy, reading directions to a coffee shop off of a crumpled piece of yellow paper scribbled on by her best friend,was also walking down the street on a sunny day, watching people's backs sway with each step. If only they had known that they went together like PB&J, like milk and cookies. If only they had known that if they had met, they would feed off of each other and live happily ever after in Maggy's hobbit house--which would be full of christmas lights and candles and flowers--despite the fact that Wyatt's neck would get sore after a while due to the fact that he would have to drop his head to get through doorways. They would buy lots of animals and plant lots of fruit and live together in peace. They would watch documentaries and have long discussions. Maggy would comfort Wyatt during horror movies and Wyatt would stroke Maggy's head as she cried during romantic movies. They would introduce each other to different types of novels; they would fall in love with prose poems as a compromise and would read out loud to each other at dinner and at bedtime. They would go to yoga and kick boxing and to the beach and they would volunteer at animal shelters and fitness centres and they would explore different faiths. They would make babies and give them names like Blossom and Haven. They would grow old together and bake cakes for their grandchildren.

If only they had known that their love would never crumble like their bodies eventually would, then maybe, when Wyatt bumped into Maggy on the street on that sunny day and her yellow crumpled paper flew away and his mint ice cream cone fell onto his shirt, maybe they would have seen all those perfect signs align, leaving them to figure out the rest. Because Wyatt's yoga class was beside the coffee shop and Maggy had a bundle of napkins in her lingering cloth bag. But they will never know that. Because with a look, an awkward pause, a shuffle, they stumbled over words. Wyatt was enthralled with Maggy's miniature beauty, and Maggy with Wyatt's laid back, sloppy, sexy look. Excuse me's and Oh, sorry's were spat out and then they stepped past each other, Wyatt's hand on the small of Maggy's back, guiding her carefully aside and away so that they wouldn't cause any more damage.

And that night they laid down. Wyatt on his rooftop underneath his palm trees and christmas lights, and Maggy on her grass beside her pond that reflected the stars, and they imagined what their lives would be like with each other in them. Wyatt wondered if that had been the girl. Maggy wondered if that had been the boy. They imagined each other hand in hand, arm in arm, one body in a bed or in the grass or on a rooftop underneath stars and lights and whatever faith they chose. They imagined what their children would look like. Then they crawled into their own beds all by themselves and slept for the rest of their lives.