128 Mia Zottoli
The Dream House “Couldn’t we stay like this forever?” It was the last sentence she spoke to me. A sentence so innocent it could be nothing but scandalous. It was fitting, for that was the nature of my relation to her. Those close to me will say that she was my undoing, a catalyst to the series of events that would eventually leave me alone and nameless, but, looking back on my life, the only time I ever escaped the darkness was with her. On that fateful night, her heart didn’t stop, her brain didn’t cease its activity, but I do believe that the woman I loved so violently, so beautifully, died that night. Forever, it was such a loaded word. I believed her when she said it, whispering gingerly in my ear, and I couldn’t help but imagine what our forever could look like. A small house, modest but stylish, maybe seated on a lake, with a large stone patio out back, our bedroom, our bedroom, leading out to it. The dream house did not differ greatly from my current domicile, but it was never the house that mattered. It was her, always her. I imagine her residence with the same picture; a fleeting hope that she still holds onto a piece of me with the same strength that I hold on to every single memory of her. Hers would be fuller than mine, though, with children running around at will, her husband probably sequestered in his office. The same house, but a completely different reality. That night is becoming more difficult to remember. I cling desperately to the image of her long black dress, the fabric swishing against my bare ankles as we danced, to the gold hue of her