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María Camila Duque Lopera

What would constitute a “perfect” day for you?

Today. I fell asleep watching the snow fall in the street lamp outside my bedroom window. And I’m not saying today was perfect like eskimo kisses, like lottery tickets, like beachside babe, like baby giggles. I’m into all of that stuff, but nothing like that happened when I watched one of the fattest cats I’ve ever met turn two quarter circles in different directions before he lay at the foot of my bed for the night. And I’m not saying today was perfect like bottles of wine after dinner conversation, like the barista said something profound yet relevant, like the first mark of a blank canvas, the crack of a book spine, like a long walk through the woods behind the house I grew up in. I would love all of that stuff, but that's not it all.

I saw the steam rise to the kettle’s lips and listened to its attention, and let it go for a few seconds before I responded. Let's talk about winter. Let's talk about grass and the touch of tent screens and your honey comb golden tongue and brain synapses like someone ordered the pizza already and it's on it's way! Or peanut butter and jam with the alpines. And you. And oh I don't know, I haven't checked my phone in a while I'm not sure where it is. And the stars. And grass stains and paint on overall pockets, tell me what you know about skin. And the first time you kissed me, and the last time you kissed me, and walking across the empty street in the middle of the day with a smile. 

[image: María Camila Duque Lopera]
[question borrowed from this study]