IV

By the time our first fight had been fought, sharing a bed was almost a weekly practice.

Our first road-trip was with her friends. The photos – her rosy cheeks and freckles - they looked like The Doors album covers.

The following weekend a few of my friends came over. She insisted on tending the fireplace and I took out extra blankets. We went to bed when she suggested that I take more photos of her. Even after the photos it was a late night.

She left the party early one night. She asked me to come-by later. I already planned to. We began to share a mind.

She had typed a letter on her computer. It said that she didn’t want to hurt me. It said that if we talked about it then her resolve would break. It said good-bye.

I smiled at her not to be ridiculous and I tried to take her hand. Her sleeve was wet and the cigarette she held was bloody and my smile faded.

She cried. She fell asleep. I cried.

My SMS’s dwindled. I wouldn’t open up until the next fight, and the next. I began to doubt myself.

She asked “What are you thinking?” I told her “Nothing” while I wondered “Am I wasting your time?”