It was terribly frustrating. Infuriating, even. But who could I be mad at? Not at them; they were all pretty, really. But it never failed to happen. We would meet, exchange compliments and smiles, go into a bistro, unravel our charms over a pretzel… and just as the fiery sweetness of our glasses would be transferred to our glances, the others would appear. Across the street, on a van, in the bathroom… always staring at me, just at me… so perfect.

They were all pretty. Just not poster pretty.

So I devised a plan, to fall in love without interfering ads. I made a post, with no photo, asking for a blind date. A real one.

Nervously, I fastened my blindfold, and asked the waiter to guide me to her table. The awkwardness dissipated instantly with her touch. We greeted, and talked, and laughed non stop. Her voice was so intriguing, her manners so natural, so… perfect… that I had to ask if she was cheating. She wasn’t. She couldn’t.

I couldn’t remove the blindfold afterwards. I haven’t ever since.