Fugue # 52

You would do anything for her. You would do anything to get her to love you. More than she already does, if she even does.

Of course, she does, and you know that. But you don’t want to think about it. You want to keep doing what you’ve been doing. It has worked, it is working.

On your desk, just to the left of your pre-cal book, propped against the lamp, where it’s a pleasant but near-constant distraction: her school picture. And to the right at arm’s length: a framed picture from a party last year. She’s more interesting than homework. You reach for it for a closer look.

The first thing you notice is her hair - blonde, mostly, and fine and shining like it’s made of light. Threads of golden light, paler on top, where it has been bleached by the sun all summer. It’s straight, but it’s all over - pulled off her forehead in a side part by unseen barettes, falling over her ears as if combed forward to frame her face.

That face. The flash of the camera washes it flat, and fair. The round cheeks, the small chin you’ve come to know so well, the nose. But it’s her eyes that hold your eyes: lucid and lined, and shadowed by dark dark lashes.

You miss her just looking at her. Emily.