Our love affair was a complicated one and took place mostly in the context of plain walls, neon dusks and rambling befores, which were epic in their lack of permanence or general importance — infinitesimal, trembling moments, lilting pauses, and fragmented half-thoughts that wandered like deer onto the freeway.
This was how I met you, in the snow-blind headlights. This was how you existed to me, in the corners of my head and eyelids, hovering in my peripheral like shooting stars that flickered in bursts when I shut my eyes too tight. And this was how we always were, at opposite polars, relegated to observe each other from the vantage of our orbit.
Here is how I will always think of you, despite your protests: long-limbed and bathed in pale pink — the entire memory is pink in a dreamlike, codeine-calm way. If you knew I said that you’d argue that pink reminded you of pepto bismol, and I’d say, well that’s how I remember it, and you know better than anyone that memories are permanent, no matter how ardently we attempt to replace them. And you’d look away, expression far away and complex, so far from your gap-toothed, wild youth.
But you couldn’t escape your wild, sitting across from me in the cracked leather booth, a strip of sunburn across your nose. Balancing cheap plastic forks in a chainlink tower, telling me how Sylvia Plath’s husband, Ted Hughes, must have had terrible luck with women, just terrible, and did you know that both of his wives offed themselves?
We didn’t talk during the car ride home, for fear that our silence could smell all those untruths, and we’d be eaten alive.
erin, a 20 year-old human girl, writes sometimes. “pink.” was inspired by frank ocean’s album blond.