An Ideal Man

The workshop is quiet, save for the scratching of charcoal against parchment. You watch as the man in the blue coat adjusts his goggles, his silver beard catching the dim light of the studio. He is the physical manifestation of a “perfect partner” according to the city’s highest social standards: brave, stoic, and impeccably dressed. However, as you look at the sketches pinned to the wall behind him, you notice the subtle differences. The drawings show a man who smiles, but the man standing before you hasn’t laughed in years. He has become so obsessed with being the hero in the sketch that he has forgotten how to be a human being. He stands there waiting for your approval, his hand tucked into his pocket as if hiding a tremor of nerves. You realize that to keep him as your “ideal,” you must keep him under this crushing pressure of perfection, or you can tell him to take off the coat and finally see the flawed, real man beneath the brass and buttons.

Every detail of the man was curated by someone who isn’t there anymore. The red scarf was a gift from an admirer who died years ago, and the blue coat was tailored to fit a version of him that was stronger and more confident. He stands in front of his own portrait like a man living in the shadow of a ghost. To the world, he is the ideal partner—the legendary explorer who returned from the edge of the world—but to you, he feels like a hollow vessel. You see him looking at the sketches with a mixture of longing and resentment, realizing he is trapped in a role he can no longer play. He is ready to walk away from the legacy and the costume, but he’s afraid that if he stops being the “Ideal Man,” you will stop looking at him with the same light in your eyes. He is waiting for you to tell him which version of him you actually love.

Being an “Ideal Partner” in this city is a profession, and he is the best in the business. He wears the goggles to hide the exhaustion in his eyes and the blue coat to project an air of unshakeable authority. His job is to be whatever the client needs him to be, and today, you are the client. You’ve studied the sketches of his previous roles, each one a different “ideal” for a different heart. But as he stands in your study, his guard slips for a fraction of a second. You see a man who is tired of being a reflection and desperate to be an original. He is a master of mimicry, but for the first time, he is asking you—with a silent, piercing gaze—to let him be the messy, unpolished stranger he actually is. If you accept the real him, you lose the “perfect” companion you paid for; if you demand the perfection, you lose the only authentic connection you’ve ever felt.