Perfect for Me

Stephanie sat in the old, porcelain claw foot tub; her feet perched on the rim as she painted her toes. Under normal, happy circumstances, she would usually have her iPod playing as she did this, maybe a candle or two lit for ambiance. The only thing she had done was cracked the window open to air out the smell of the nail polish. Despite being mad at Brian, she knew that the smell caused him headaches and sometimes nose bleeds.

Brian sat on the other side of the bathroom door, in their bedroom, softly strumming on his acoustic. He knew she was mad, because lately he spent so much time with the guys or working. He’d been home for a month already after their last tour and had been home for maybe three dinners she had cooked. He didn’t blame her.

He knew she loved him, maybe almost as much as he loved her. He had vowed to be her husband, to love and care for her until her dying breath. That had been three years ago, and it hadn’t changed since then. She was a writer, and work was always fluctuating from its highs to lows. She was always looking for a part-time or full-time job, whether it was bagging groceries or writing at an office, but he always reassured her that she didn’t have to provide, because he wanted to take care of her.

She was stubborn, but that was why he loved her so much.

She was stubborn the day they met, at some dive where the band had one of their first shows. She’d been fifteen, flirting with him in her careless, adorable way. He’d been eighteen, shooting her down because he said she was too young and he was too much of a bad boy for a sweet girl like her in her daisy printed skirt and white tank top.

Later that same evening at a party, she cornered him until he asked her out on a date. And five years later, he asked her to marry him. So here they were, eight years later. Just a little bit wiser, but not too much older.

In the beginning, like summers after high school, she would spend a lot of time going on tour with them. But eventually, she started to stay home because with age came a low tolerance for alcohol and sleeping in cramped bunks with him, or having to take care of their friends, his band mates.

He knew she wasn’t perfect, he didn’t believe any one person was. He had the brass to say that to her, and at the narrowing of her blue eyes he smiled and corrected himself, saying that she wasn’t perfect, but she was perfect for him.

Sometimes they were like one complete person. After partying and crashing at friend’s houses died down, once they finally got their own place, they’d spend Saturday and Sunday mornings in bed and they’d just talk. They’d share secrets, or hopes and dreams.

He knew that she hated how fast her father married after her mother’s passing when she was twenty, but he made her realize how much her father needed to be with someone, and she did love her stepmother, Beverly. He also knew about how nervous she had been the very first time she spoke to him at that dive venue, how her palms had been sweaty and she was afraid of her voice shaking.

She knew how much he loved her name, Stephanie. How much he said he relished in the way it tasted on his tongue. How he secretly enjoyed watching Disney movies with her on rainy days or Friday nights. He playfully threatened to never have sex if she ever told his friends. She giggled at that.

Maybe what he loved most about her was how she patiently waited in the wings while he was songwriting. He had his own recording studio in their home, and more often than not he’d lock himself in if he couldn’t finish a song. She’d quietly knock when she heard him take a break, let him know that she made him something to eat, and retreat to her own space to write. When he got really obsessive with finishing a song or was on a roll making an entire album, often pulling out his hair or letting out cries of frustration, she’d sneak in and rub his head, which soothed him back to normal.

Sometimes he’d pity himself, worried that he didn’t give her enough or that she could have done so much better. Before him, she’d been the girl next door, and plenty of high school boys had agreed that they thought she was cute, wondered what she was doing with a bad boy like him.

The worries became more prominent before the band took off, when he struggled to make ends meet and he and the band were living out of their van and Top Ramen. It wasn’t until recently, when they really had made a living out of the band, that he realized that giving her these pointless, materialistic things wasn’t something to worry about. She had reassured him that if they were living in a cardboard box she’d still love him all the same.


“Even after all this time, nothing else I ever find
In this whole wide world can shake me like you do
It’s true that something so sublime that there aren’t words yet to describe
The beauty of this life I’ve made with you.”


It was one of her favorite songs. Stephanie’s hand stopped brushing the paint onto her toes, her head lifting slightly and staring at the door. For their small wedding, they hadn’t chosen a wedding song; they instead had a wedding playlist that they’d dance to. This had been one of the songs.

“Cheater.” She muttered childishly, sniffing.

She would make him wait until her polish was dry. She wouldn’t mess up her pedicure for him, not when he hadn’t been home in days on end.

He was singing the end of the song when she slowly pushed the door open, peaking out to look at him sitting on their bed.


“And I’d just like to say
I thank God that you’re here with me
And I know you too well to say you’re perfect
But you’ll see oh my sweet love you’re perfect for me
And I know you too well to say you’re perfect
But you’ll see oh my sweet love you’re perfect
Yes I promise, you’re perfect for me.”


She did love him, maybe too much. She’d die for him if it came down to it. She was hopelessly in love with him.

She melted at the sound of his voice or the look in his brown eyes. Her bones turned to jelly whenever he came home from a long tour and he intercepted her running at the airport terminal once they got off the plane.

“I love you.” She smiled wryly, leaning against the doorframe.

Brian flashed her a grin, his hands falling from the neck of the guitar. “I’m sorry I’ve been all over the place.”

“I’m sorry I’m so needy.” She winced.

He patted his lap and laid the guitar down on the bed. She crawled into his lap and tucked her head into the crook of his neck. “I’m home.” She whispered into his skin.

He played with a strand of his hair. “Steph, you’ve been home the entire leg of the tour.” He reminded her, smiling.

She shook her head against his neck, nuzzling the skin with her nose. “No I haven’t. Home is in your arms, wherever you are.” She corrected him.

“Well, you should have told me that before we bought this house, woman.” He teased, smelling her hair. “I love you. I think I’ve loved you since I met you.”

She opened one eye, looking up at his chin. “What was I wearing the day I met you?” She asked cheekily.

“Daisy shorts, white tank top. You looked so out of place, but so perfect.” He never got it wrong. Sometimes he remembered more about their relationship than she did. He always claimed that it was the happiest day of his life, and would remain so.