You Liked Him, but the Version in Your Head Was Even Better

You can be very fond of a man and still find yourself mentally standing in front of him with a small paintbrush.

At first, you rather like the painting. The colors are good, the landscape has charm, and even that slightly unruly tree on the left gives the whole thing a bit of character.

Then you look again.

The sky could be brighter. That tree might be better a little smaller.

And once the brush is in your hand, you start noticing all sorts of other things. His communication could be better, his consistency could use some attention, and his habit of disappearing whenever a conversation contains more than three consecutive feelings is not exactly helping the composition.

Nothing major.

Just a little restoration.

It Starts With One Very Reasonable Brushstroke

At first, the changes are tiny. Nobody stands in front of a perfectly decent landscape and announces that by dinner she intends to replace half the countryside.

And then you begin to get ideas.

He could make plans a little further in advance. A little more affection would hardly ruin the piece. That tendency to retreat into a cave whenever something uncomfortable needs discussing could certainly be softened around the edges.

You are not asking for another man.

Goodness.

You merely have a few tasteful suggestions for this one.

And because every suggestion sounds perfectly reasonable on its own, the paintbrush remains in your hand. The sky gets a little brighter, the tree loses a branch, and a gloomy patch near the hill receives some attention.

Much better.

This is where Madam becomes encouraged.

Soon the Coastline Is Moving

Once you have improved three things, a fourth begins to look almost irresponsible to leave alone.

His communication is already excellent in your imagination, so naturally Madam moves on to commitment. While we are here, his attitude toward making plans before the very last moment could use a little work, and if the gentleman developed a warmer relationship with emotional intimacy, the entire landscape would open up beautifully.

The brush becomes increasingly confident. That tree can go altogether, the hill would be nicer over there, and nobody was terribly attached to that cloudy section anyway.

Somewhere in all this cheerful repainting, you stop looking quite so closely at the original. The man is still standing exactly where you found him, but your attention has wandered off toward the considerably improved landscape beside him.

And what a landscape it is.

In this version, he communicates beautifully. Plans appear in advance. He says what he means. Several excellent qualities have now appeared on the canvas without troubling real life first.

Potential is very obliging that way. It lets you admire details that have not technically made it onto the canvas.

Meanwhile, the original painting continues hanging quietly on the wall.

Tree and all.

This May No Longer Be Restoration

By now, even the frame has reason to feel slightly concerned.

The sky has changed completely, the hill has moved, the tree disappeared some time ago, and an entirely new coastline has appeared on the right.

Continuing to call this a restoration now requires a certain amount of nerve.

You have not uncovered the original masterpiece, you have painted another picture over it.

And the particularly funny part is that the first painting may have been perfectly good. Someone else might have adored the dark sky, the crooked tree and that inconvenient little cottage by the water.

The painting had, after all, been rather clear about what it was from the beginning, but madam was simply very confident about what could be done with a brush.

Before long, you are rather fond of a man who is mostly brushwork. From this close, the new version looks wonderful. Then one day, you step back.

The landscape in your head is magnificent!

Unfortunately, it is not the one hanging on the wall.