You Made A Lovely Picture With Me
You made a lovely picture, you know. The way your hair was perfectly parted to the left, and the crimson color that painted your cheekbones. I fell in love with your jawline of all things. The sharp lining that it delivered to your pale face. My favorite part of the day was when I could cuff my dainty little hands on that smooth part of your body, having my lips gently approach yours. The way you would bite my lower lip with each of your hands grasping my face so firmly—that would always make a lovely picture.
Everything you wore fit your body like a glove. Every girl would envy the way you were able to devour French fries yet still project this Photoshopped physique. You had a lovely sense of style that appeared effortless every morning you left for work. Trends would disappear but your style never faded.
I loved when you came to my college graduation and stood by my family the entire time. They were always able to count on you to help with decorations and arrangements for the party afterwards. You grabbed on to my cap with one hand and held my hand with the other. You kissed my forehead smoothly and nodded towards my parents. You had me get ready to take the perfect little picture.
At your holiday work party we were dressed immaculately. I wore a dress that shimmered shades of auburn and you wore a flawless black suit that was handed down from your older brother. It was gorgeously vintage. We appeared like we were living carelessly in the 1920s. There were times where I lost you, as you disappeared to talk with your friends and co-workers. I nested with my generous glass of Chianti until you returned. I figured you would always come back, but sometimes I would get a short scare. Yet you would always come back to hold me and take this pretty picture.
There were some days when dinner was cold, though. I would sit and stare and anxiously wait for you to utter out something from your day. I would wait until you asked how I was doing or if my parents were still coming to town this weekend. There were times when you wouldn’t answer me, as if I was just part of the exasperating noise coming from next door. You would throw your plate in the sink when I forgot to take out the mushrooms from your pasta. Things would break. The air between us started to shatter.
You stopped saying the cute nothings I had whispered into my ear when we woke up in the morning. I was no longer spooned across your abs and thighs. I was wiped to the side of the bed, shaken with nothing more than a thin sheet to cover up my naked body. You were up and you were out, but you still always came home. You still came home every night at the same time. There were no signs of a betrayal of faith—just a betrayal of passion. Things grew dull and gray, and we grew emptier as the days went on. I didn’t want to leave, and neither did you. We always made a lovely picture together. Everyone loved to comment on our evident happiness. We loved it.
Actors, we were. We were perfect at vanishing into character, disguising this essential collapse. It was lovely, you know, the ability we had to generate this unmistakable lust. Yet we disintegrated, and it was you who hoped that this disguise could get us through it all. I craved everything we were—what you were, but was dangling from this last string of hope.
I’ve cut the thread, and my insides still feel somewhat hollow. I still gaze at the pictures on the wall as tears drop down my disenchanted face. We made a pretty picture together, you know. But that’s all we were ever going to be.