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One beautiful April morning, on a narrow side street in Tokyo's fashionable Harujuku neighborhood, I walked past the 100% perfect girl.

Tell you the truth, she's not that good-looking. She doesn't stand out in any way. Her clothes are nothing special. The back of her hair is still bent out of shape from sleep. She isn't young, either - must be near thirty, not even close to a "girl," properly speaking. But still, I know from fifty yards away: She's the 100% perfect girl for me. The moment I see her, there's a rumbling in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a desert.

Maybe you have your own particular favorite type of girl - one with slim ankles, say, or big eyes, or graceful fingers, or you're drawn for no good reason to girls who take their time with every meal. I have my own preferences, of course. Sometimes in a restaurant I'll catch myself staring at the girl at the next table to mine because I like the shape of her nose.

But no one can insist that his 100% perfect girl correspond to some preconceived type. Much as I like noses, I can't recall the shape of hers - or even if she had one. All I can remember for sure is that she was no great beauty. It's weird.

"Yesterday on the street I passed the 100% girl," I tell someone.

"Yeah?" he says. "Good-looking?"

"Not really."

"Your favorite type, then?"

"I don't know. I can't seem to remember anything about her - the shape of her eyes or the size of her breasts."

"Strange."

"Yeah. Strange."

"So anyhow," he says, already bored, "what did you do? Talk to her? Follow her?"

"Nah. Just passed her on the street."

She's walking east to west, and I west to east. It's a really nice April morning.

Wish I could talk to her. Half an hour would be plenty: just ask her about herself, tell her about myself, and - what I'd really like to do - explain to her the complexities of fate that have led to our passing each other on a side street in Harajuku on a beautiful April morning in 1981. This was something sure to be crammed full of warm secrets, like an antique clock build when peace filled the world.

After talking, we'd have lunch somewhere, maybe see a Woody Allen movie, stop by a hotel bar for cocktails. With any kind of luck, we might end up in bed.

Potentiality knocks on the door of my heart.

Now the distance between us has narrowed to fifteen yards.

How can I approach her? What should I say?

"Good morning, miss. Do you think you could spare half an hour for a little conversation?"

Ridiculous. I'd sound like an insurance salesman.

"Pardon me, but would you happen to know if there is an all-night cleaners in the neighborhood?"

No, this is just as ridiculous. I'm not carrying any laundry, for one thing. Who's going to buy a line like that?

Maybe the simple truth would do. "Good morning. You are the 100% perfect girl for me."

No, she wouldn't believe it. Or even if she did, she might not want to talk to me. Sorry, she could say, I might be the 100% perfect girl for you, but you're not the 100% boy for me. It could happen. And if I found myself in that situation, I'd probably go to pieces. I'd never recover from the shock. I'm thirty-two, and that's what growing older is all about.

We pass in front of a flower shop. A small, warm air mass touches my skin. The asphalt is damp, and I catch the scent of roses. I can't bring myself to speak to her. She wears a white sweater, and in her right hand she holds a crisp white envelope lacking only a stamp. So: She's written somebody a letter, maybe spent the whole night writing, to judge from the sleepy look in her eyes. The envelope could contain every secret she's ever had.

I take a few more strides and turn: She's lost in the crowd.

Now, of course, I know exactly what I should have said to her. It would have been a long speech, though, far too long for me to have delivered it properly. The ideas I come up with are never very practical.

Oh, well. It would have started "Once upon a time" and ended "A sad story, don't you think?"

Once upon a time, there lived a boy and a girl. The boy was eighteen and the girl sixteen. He was not unusually handsome, and she was not especially beautiful. They were just an ordinary lonely boy and an ordinary lonely girl, like all the others. But they believed with their whole hearts that somewhere in the world there lived the 100% perfect boy and the 100% perfect girl for them. Yes, they believed in a miracle. And that miracle actually happened.

One day the two came upon each other on the corner of a street.

"This is amazing," he said. "I've been looking for you all my life. You may not believe this, but you're the 100% perfect girl for me."

"And you," she said to him, "are the 100% perfect boy for me, exactly as I'd pictured you in every detail. It's like a dream."

They sat on a park bench, held hands, and told each other their stories hour after hour. They were not lonely anymore. They had found and been found by their 100% perfect other. What a wonderful thing it is to find and be found by your 100% perfect other. It's a miracle, a cosmic miracle.

As they sat and talked, however, a tiny, tiny sliver of doubt took root in their hearts: Was it really all right for one's dreams to come true so easily?

And so, when there came a momentary lull in their conversation, the boy said to the girl, "Let's test ourselves - just once. If we really are each other's 100% perfect lovers, then sometime, somewhere, we will meet again without fail. And when that happens, and we know that we are the 100% perfect ones, we'll marry then and there. What do you think?"

"Yes," she said, "that is exactly what we should do."

And so they parted, she to the east, and he to the west.

The test they had agreed upon, however, was utterly unnecessary. They should never have undertaken it, because they really and truly were each other's 100% perfect lovers, and it was a miracle that they had ever met. But it was impossible for them to know this, young as they were. The cold, indifferent waves of fate proceeded to toss them unmercifully.

One winter, both the boy and the girl came down with the season's terrible inluenza, and after drifting for weeks between life and death they lost all memory of their earlier years. When they awoke, their heads were as empty as the young D. H. Lawrence's piggy bank.

They were two bright, determined young people, however, and through their unremitting efforts they were able to acquire once again the knowledge and feeling that qualified them to return as full-fledged members of society. Heaven be praised, they became truly upstanding citizens who knew how to transfer from one subway line to another, who were fully capable of sending a special-delivery letter at the post office. Indeed, they even experienced love again, sometimes as much as 75% or even 85% love.

Time passed with shocking swiftness, and soon the boy was thirty-two, the girl thirty.

One beautiful April morning, in search of a cup of coffee to start the day, the boy was walking from west to east, while the girl, intending to send a special-delivery letter, was walking from east to west, but along the same narrow street in the Harajuku neighborhood of Tokyo. They passed each other in the very center of the street. The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts. Each felt a rumbling in their chest. And they knew:

She is the 100% perfect girl for me.

He is the 100% perfect boy for me.

But the glow of their memories was far too weak, and their thoughts no longer had the clarity of fouteen years earlier. Without a word, they passed each other, disappearing into the crowd. Forever.

A sad story, don't you think?

Yes, that's it, that is what I should have said to her.

一个美妙的四月春晨，在东京原宿时尚区的一条狭窄的路边，我与一位100%完美的女孩擦肩而过。

实话说，她并不那么漂亮，哪方面也不怎么突出，平常的衣着，睡翘的发梢。她也不年轻——估计得有30岁，严格讲甚至不能叫她“女孩儿”。但是，在我离她还有50码的时候我就确定了：她就是我的100%完美女孩。看到她的瞬间，我的胸中“咯噔”一颤，口中如沙漠一样干涸。

也许对女孩你有自己的特殊口味——比如细细的脚踝，或者大大的眼睛、优雅的玉指，抑或你就喜欢那种吃饭细嚼慢咽的女孩，又说不清到底为什么。我当然有我个人的偏好。有时在饭馆里我会意识到我在盯着旁边一桌的姑娘，就因为我喜欢她鼻子的形状。

但是没人能断言，对于他的100%完美女孩就是某些预想的类型。尽管我说我喜欢她鼻子的形状，我也记不起那究竟是怎么一种形状——甚至不能确定她是不是真的有让我心动的鼻子。我只能确定，她不是个大美女。怪哉。

“昨天在路上我看见了我的真命天女，”我跟人说。

“哦？”他说道，“美女？”

“不算是。”

“那是你喜欢的类型咯？”

“我也不知道。其实我一点也想不起来了——她眼睛什么样，胸有多大，都不记得。”

“那就奇了。”

“是啊，挺奇怪的。”

“那，”他已经觉得无趣，说，“到底你干嘛了啊？跟她说话了？还是跟踪她了？”

“都没，就那么擦肩而过。”

她自东向西走，我自西向东走。那真是个美妙的四月春晨。

真希望我跟她说了话，半小时就够，就问问她关于她的事，跟她讲讲关于我的事，然后——我的重点——解释给她听：我们能在1981年4月的一个美丽的清晨，在原宿的街边相遇，其实是一种宿命，是命运的精心安排。这肯定充满了温暖人心的秘密，就如同和平世界里的一座古钟。

聊完了，我们就会去什么地方吃个午饭，或许再看个Woody Allen的电影，在一家旅馆的酒吧喝杯鸡尾酒。真的走运的话，我们有可能会上床也说不定呢。

无数可能性敲开我的心扉。

现在我们之间的距离已经缩短到15码了。

我该怎么接近她？我该怎么说才好？

“早上好，小姐。你觉得花半小时咱们聊聊如何？”

可笑啊。听上去就像推销保险的。

“不好意思，请问你知不知道附近哪有通宵洗衣店？”

不，这同样可笑。首先，我又没拿什么要洗的东西，再说了，谁会吃我这套啊。

没准简单说实话就行。“早上好。对我来说你就是100%完美的女孩。”

不行，她不会相信的。就算信了，她也很可能不想跟我说话。对不起，她会说，对我来说你不是100%完美的男孩。可能会是这样。要真是那样，我肯定会心碎的，而且再也不会复原。我已经32了。这就是变老所意味的残酷现实。

我们走过一家花店。一股细细的暖流拂过我的皮肤。我闻到路上沥青的潮味，还有一阵玫瑰的香气。我还是不能过去跟她说话。她穿着一件白色毛衣，右手拿着一个整洁的白信封，就缺一张邮票了。因此我想：她给谁写了信，也许写了一晚上——从她睡意惺忪的外表就能看出来。那个信封里没准包含了她所有的秘密。

我走了几大步然后拐弯，她就消失在人海中了。

现在，当然，我已经确切地知道我该跟她说些什么了。虽然要说很多，多到我没法合适地把它说出来——我的点子总是很不实际。

嗯，开场白应该是“很久很久以前”，然后以此结尾“一个伤心的故事，不是么？”

很久很久以前，有个男孩和一个女孩。男孩18岁，女孩16。他不是个美男子，她也不是国色天香。他们很寻常，只不过是一个寂寞的男生和一个寂寞的女生，和所有其他人一样。但是，他们都真心地相信，对自己来说在世界上的某个地方有着100%完美的情人。是的，他们相信奇迹。奇迹，也确实出现了。

有一天他们在一个街角相遇了。

“这真神了，”他说，“我一辈子都在寻找你。你也许不信，但是你真的是我心中100%完美女孩。”

“你，”她说，“也是我心中的100%完美男孩，连细节都和我设想的完全一样。这就像做梦一样。”

他们一起坐在公园里的长凳上，手牵着手，给对方讲各自的故事，任时间流逝。他们不再寂寞。他们找到了对自己来说100%完美的另一半。能找到自己的另一半，同时被自己的另一半找到，是多么美妙的事啊！这是个奇迹，天大的奇迹。

他们坐在那里说啊说，忽然，有一丝丝疑虑在他们心中生根：梦想成真该不该如此容易呢？

于是他们的对话出现了短暂的冷场，男孩对女孩说：“咱们来试一试，就试一次。如果我们真的是对方100%完美的爱人，那某时，某地，我们一定会再次相遇。到那时，我们就真的确定了，我们就马上结婚。你觉得呢？”

“好，”她说，“我也是这么想的。”

于是他们分开了，她向东，他向西。

这个他俩都同意的测试，其实是完完全全不必要的。他们从来都不该这么干，因为他们本来就真的是对方100%完美的另一半，而他们相遇就已经是奇迹了。然而，他们怎么会懂得这些呢，他们还那么年轻。一如往常，冰冷而平淡的命运继续无情地戏弄着他们。

一年冬天，男孩和女孩都得了可怕的季节性流感。在生死边缘挣扎了几周后，他们都失忆了。当再度醒来时，他们的头脑都空空如也。

他们俩都是既聪明又有毅力的年轻人，在不懈的努力下，他们再次获得了知识和良好的自我感觉，够格成为社会中的骨干。感谢上帝，他们成为了真正诚实而正直的市民，一个懂得如何换乘地铁，一个完全可以自己到邮局寄走一封快递邮件。甚至，他们又经历了恋爱，有几次居然有75%或85%的真爱。

光阴似箭，日月如梭。不久男孩就32了，女孩也年至30。

一个美妙的四月春晨，在去找杯咖啡来开始新的一天的路上，男孩自西向东走，而女孩呢，正要去寄特快专递，自东向西走。他们恰巧走在东京原宿区的同一条路上。他们在路中间擦肩而过，心中那失去的记忆的火花极其微弱地一闪，转瞬即逝。各自胸中一颤，于是他们就知道了：

她是他的100%完美女孩。

他是她的100%完美男孩。

但是，他们记忆的星星之火实在太微弱了，他们的思想也不似14年前那么明晰。没说一个字，他们错过了对方，消失在茫茫人海。永远。

一个伤心的故事，不是么？

是的，就是这样。这就是我该和她说的。

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