Fickle Standards

I listened to him talk, my head motioning agreement at the end of each phrase. Occasionally I could feel myself speak, mouth widening, I could feel myself there. I did like him, yet each word he spoke sent me further away. I would find myself fixed on his features, evaluating their proportion and positioning. Overall he was attractive, that free, rebellious type; oozing with charisma. I could imagine myself swept away, our bodies entwined on some remote island. Yet my thoughts could drift in two directions, the first elaborating on my fictional romance, the second picking apart his imperfections; leaving me with a dream of what I could have and the guilty destruction that I created. I stared a little at the rambling man in front of me; just an empty case whose contents I have picked through before he could confess them to be his own. He is not a fool. "Fickle" he named me...my short tempered standards; they guide me to the highest heights. Yet it is a lonely journey that is not quickly finished.