She looked like a Death Cab for Cutie song. She had those eyes that someone gets when they think too seriously about life. Knows it’s not good for her, but does it anyway. Beautiful, in a tragic way. It can’t always be Fear and Loathing and Madness. Sometimes there are also words like Truth and Beauty and Love that need to come into play. They told us to be well rounded when we were young; I’m just starting to understand what they meant. I read it on her face.
We got drunk and played ping pong, and I smiled when she beat me. She looked quite cute with her competitive scowl. I told her about it months later as we laid in bed, she punched me in the arm for letting her win. I laughed and made her pancakes, she smiled with her eyes at me as she ate them, still wearing that competitive scowl.
We took Mr. Chips for a walk in the rich neighborhood next to ours. He pissed on a BMW and we smiled like proud parents. She grabbed my hand like she used to do, back when we were new. I looked at her and wished I loved her like her face loved up at me. I held her hand tightly, comfortable now, but not really excited anymore.
She makes fun of my Chucks, telling me that I should grow up, wear grown up shoes. I make fun of her coloring books, the ones she pretends to keep around for her sister’s kids. She doesn’t understand why I like hip hop. I think her hippie music is silly. We both love Bob Dylan, but in completely different ways. She says she doesn’t really understand where my writing comes from, but she thinks it’s beautiful anyway. I tell her she’s the best associate director of photography that this city has ever known. And I meant it. She’s beautiful when she sleeps, a peaceful smile and a quiet existence. Maybe this is love.
Which was why it was such a shock to come home one day to find her engagement ring on the table, on top of a note that just said, “Sorry.” She left her ring and took Mr. Chips with her. Well played Cutie, I always loved that dog more than you.