Theresa was a beautiful girl. She didn’t feel beautiful most of the time, though; her eyebrows were thick and her hips were a little generous, bony as she was. She never noticed the heads turning and if she did she thought the stares were in reaction to her thick eyebrows and generous hips. She didn’t see her raven feather hair. Usually she only saw the beautiful ones she knew, and thought they were far more lovely than she. She felt a slight rise in power when she eventually starting drinking and smoking, she felt wise and started watching lots of Bette Davis movies on Sunday afternoons. But young girls really don’t need to find glamour in an emphysematous pop eyed film star from the thirties. Young girls need to be found outside, running and leaping, rolling in the grass. Theresa felt like she was born in the wrong era, but she wasn’t yet aware of how common this malady was, how many legions of girls felt the same way. She wasn’t yet aware that she was born at exactly the right place in exactly the right time, to exactly the right parents, so that she could meet the exact right person at the exactly right time, and that that person would save her life in every way imaginable. That person who had also felt like such a failure for much of his life would bring her to the threshold of her (and their) ultimate destiny. It’s not science fiction, it’s love.