[ WP ] A schizophrenic falls in love with one of her hallucinations .

He was blonde. Not dirty blonde, not hay colored with a tint of orange; no, he was perfectly yellow haired. Long and flowing, those blonde strands fell in front of two pools, freshly cleaned and never contaminated. His nose fell into a French point that reminded her of the Eiffel Tower, and was curved by a grand staircase that made his nostrils. His cheeks were sandy and rough, as if he'd been sun-burnt and salt swept a thousand times over by the coast just outside her house. He flashed his teeth in a thieve's smile, and a lone cigarette hung tight in his smirk. He wore an attire of a messenger of the military. A brown felt shirt with brass buttons and pockets all over it. His sleeves were rolled up and held into place with two straps, buttoned. His pants were grey khaki. His belt matched his shirt, his boots matched his pants. 
 
 She was stricken, and she hated it. He was too perfect. He was exactly what she wanted him to be and everything else more. He even spoke with an accent. She stomped her feet and told him very politely to exit the premises. He simply smiled and patted her on the head as if she was a simple little school girl. His laugh was the same one her first love had, that reassuring, boyish giggle. She hated him. 
 
 Because he was n't real. He sounded too much like her first love, looked too much like the men she saw in her magazines, and he was military. God she loved men in uniform. She could've looked past that though. She could've let it go, and begged him to stay right there on the spot. 
 
 If he did n't smoke that damn cigarette. 
 
 That cigarette held no brand, had no markings, had no line to show that it was hand rolled. Most obviously though, it had no smell. None at all. When he rubbed his hand through her hair, and when the cigarette nearly poked her in the face, she could feel no heat, and could smell no tobacco. He never exhaled either. No smoke ever made its way out of his lungs and down that great staircase. 
 
 She thanked him for the letter she received, and he left, closing the door himself. 
 
 `` Who was that?'' her cat asked. 
 
 `` Oh no one,'' she said, `` Just a postman.'' 
 
 `` Oh, good,'' he said, jumping up into her lap as she sat at her desk, `` Did you remember to take your pills this morning?''
