When We Part (on hold)

399 Days

There are questions I'll never know the answer to.

Such as "Why is guppy a cuter word than puppy? Why is the word snuggle cuter than cuddle?"

I don't know why the sky is blue and I'm too lazy to google it.

I can't possibly understand the way we need so many things.

I constantly wonder about how social hierarchy came into place.

Why do we have so many thoughts during a day?

How come we never just stop and realize that there are cells and living things in our bodies always at work, keeping us alive?

What if they stopped at any moment, and just gave up?

I wasn't going anywhere with that. I just thought you should know.

Gerard tugged on my hand as we ran through the cemetery. It was a dark an cloudless night. These are the best kind of nights when you're away from the city. When you can see all the stars and the moon looks bigger. That's the best time, I think. It was a nighttime adventure. Instead of going to the cemetery Gerard worked at, we went to the one in Gulley. It was older, so there were a lot of old headstones and statues that gave it that kinetically creepy feel. I liked going to the cemetery so I could read everyone's tombstone, imagining their life before death.

Gerard's fingers traced the edges of one. It read, "Susan Crillow, December 12th, 1965 - June 26th, 1980".

"She was fourteen," I said, my fingers running through the patchy grass beneath us.

"Brown hair," he murmured. "And blue eyes. She was probably tall and thin. I think she was an artist."

"What kind?" I asked.

"Painting," he returned. "Painting and drawing. I think that suits her."

I nodded in agreement. Everything he'd said did make me feel like she was the person we thought. You sort of grow attached to the people you create.

"I think she got hit," I told him. "By a car. Maybe she was just in a car crash. I don't think she would have died any other way."

"She had freckles," he said.

"You think so?"

"Yeah," he chuckled. "Just cute little flecks across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose."

"I'm going to miss her," I sighed.

He looked into my eyes and smiled.

"She won't be gone," he whispered. He took his phone out and took a picture of her headstone.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"I'm going to paint her," he told me. "Just for you. We'll hang the picture up somewhere in the apartment, you can pick, and you'll be able to see her and talk to her. I won't think you're crazy."

I smiled and took his hand in mine.

"I'd like that," I grinned.

I realize how morbid we were, giving the dead our own stories.

But I don't care.

+++

He picked up a canvas and some shitty paint from the art store on Trilly Avenue. I watched as he sketched out the main lines on the canvas, and began painting with finesse. Slowly, Susan's face started to become what we'd imagines. Pale skin. Flushed cheeks. Freckles. Icy blue eyes. I felt odd about being attached to her. Especially since she was a painting of an idea of a dead girl. Probably as far from the real Susie Crillow as we could possibly imagine. But she was ours and we weren't about to question the strange ways in which our brains worked.