Only Saints

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I haven't worn black in years.

I have to pull my dress shirt straight to make it hang correctly on my shoulders. Like most of my old clothes, it's too big on me, swallowing my reflection in long sleeves and a loose collar. It makes me look washed out, like an old photo. A ghost. A memory.

I wish I was a memory.

Black brings out every sleepless night in the dark bruises pooled under my eyes and makes it obvious I haven't washed my hair in a week. God. Pull your hair back. I've got a nice hair tie for this, new, one I bought for my graduation not four months ago and I haven't used since. Plain black ribbon that slips and doesn't catch at fragile hair. Bangs held back with bobby pins that are an almost-match for sepia-tone brown. Mousy. Plain. Dirt-brown.

Velvet-brown, Dad always corrects me, like the worn leather of his favorite armchair down in the study.

Rabbit-brown, Old Mère says.

Said. Old Mère said.

"How's it going in there?" A heavy knock on the door with the telltale hard clack of a class ring against the wood. Drew.

I don't want to deal with Drew right now. He's my best friend, but he doesn't get it. No one gets it.

Maybe no one gets it because I haven't told any of them the whole truth.

No, that can't be it. I'm the most truthful person I know. All cut-and-dry facts with me. I pull my hair tie so tight against my scalp it feels like needles are pinching through my skin.

I have to keep myself together. I haven't cried yet today—I haven't cried since last Sunday, I think, and has it really been that long already? I run the water, splash a little on my face to wake up, try to scrub out the dark circles and look a little bit less like a corpse.

You'd think I'm the one we're burying today.

Keep yourself together. Flash a smile, fake and white, same as in all my grad photos. No one else can tell the difference even if they cared enough to try.

"I'm good," I call out. Liar, hums my smiling reflection. "Just, uh..." Losing a staring contest with myself. It's too hard to avoid those bloodshot eyes that catch my gaze every time I glance up at the mirror. I have to do everything in my peripheral vision, waiting for my reflection to blink.

Tug your collar straight. Check the buttons, that top one's coming loose. Pull your sleeves down to your wrists, careful creases at the elbow, flip the cuffs back twice so you don't look too formal but you don't look disrespectful either. My digital watch glares up at me from the white granite countertop, a navy blue stretch band and a black face and old-fashioned green numbering that's starting to go out. I'll have to buy a new watch for work. These waterproof ones are good; they don't stop working after one day at the beach.

Keep yourself together. It's going to be okay. You'll come out the other side just the same as you were a week ago, and it's all going to be okay.

I fidget with the end of my left sleeve, trying to press it flat against my forearm. The last time I wore this shirt was probably two years ago, when I went to a funeral for one of Dad's coworkers. Black does not look good on me.

"Now that's a lie." Drew pushes into my bathroom and slings an arm around my shoulders. He's already dressed and ready, his black dress shirt loose, not tucked in, dark slacks rolling down over the same shined shoes he wore to graduation. He looks good, with coffee-black hair cut short around his face and the gold tan he got from spending his summer lounging at the beach.