February 10th
I met your Mum, she was lovely, just like you. She looked like you too- well, minus the battered bruises and limp hair that was you.
She asked if I was "her" and I was confused, I told her that your girlfriend was the pretty brunette weeping pale tears clutching the bouquet of even paler Lillie's.
But she wanted to know if I was girl who always scribbled in a notebook and had dreads that rivaled that of Bob Marley.
I gave a scratchy laugh that sounded like a confused and misplaced sob. Her red and shaking hand gave me a piece of paper, it was simply titled in those blocky letters, "her."
I was so, so, perplexed, your mum patted my hand, "he always talked about 'her,' would never say your name, he'd say little things like 'oh she added beads to her dreads, or she has pretty eyes-cruel beauties they are' I think-I think he was talking about you."
I gave a closed eye smile and left.
I couldn't even do it.
YOU ARE READING
A brilliant case of skinny love
Short StoryThis is the story of us. The ups and downs, curves and edges. But it's a different story then what I've ever read, because you see, I've never met you. And we won't fall in love and we won't share a kiss and you won't hold me when I cry.
