him again. He kneeled down on the concrete beside her. She gazed at him without a sense of humor in her eyes. The sense of humor that makes you feel comfortable. The cigarette smoke looped around her hair like a deformed halo. The way that she tucked the cigarette into her mouth, like a bat flying into its cave at night allured him. Her hair trailed underneath it, each strand seemed to shimmer in the light like a ruby. “Vans are hideous aren’t they,” she said as her eyes trailed behind a van pulling out of a parking spot. “They’re okay. Nothing I would drive, but I don’t have kids.” “That’s why I hate vans. They usually carry children. I hate children. The way they carry themselves, thrusting around so aimlessly. Parents do so much for them and then they usually just break their parents’ heart.” “They’re children. They’re supposed to be that way. It’s a learning experience for the parents and the child.” “It’s disgusting. It sounds like nothing but a waste of time,” she proclaimed as she watched a mother stuff her toddler into a creaking stroller. She tugged at the palm of his hand and scribbled her number across his palm. “What’s this?” Timothy questioned with a tinge of amazement in his voice, as he glanced at the shimmering black ink in the creases of his palm. “It’s my number. What did you think it was?” “I don’t know. A fake number. Just to fool me.” “No. Not today,” she said as she stomped out her cigarette butt. That’s when he became branded by a woman. A woman that he eventually
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called a week later and talked to for an hour about wasting time, and nothing. It was all very harmonious, even though they didn’t know much about what they discussed. They pretended to, just to impress each other. That hour turned into a week, and then a month, and before he knew it, he had grown to miss her even when she came to visit. He wanted her to stay with him for more than a night. He wanted his home to be branded with her things, and those ruby strands of hair that collected on his couch, and her chuckles. It took her three months to decide on what type of paint she wanted for their room, and a month to pick the bed that was firm enough for her rigid bones. Then she eventually moved in with a small burnt orange suitcase, and the pillows from her couch. She didn’t like his. “What are you bringing?” Timothy asked. “Whatever fits in my suitcase.” “Feel free to bring more.” “I don’t want to. What I don’t like, I’ll fix.” Her words were similar to the way that you flip through pages of a book. They seemed experimental, and new with every turn. He was no more than an object to her, and if she couldn’t fix him, then he knew she was gone. There was a trail of acid that relocated from his stomach to his throat as he swallowed. He didn’t have everything. Which means she would treat what he did have like nothing. She had already landscaped his bedroom with a marigold color that he didn’t like. She said that it reminded her of her room when she was a child. So he dipped a paintbrush into the cans of marigold paint and covered his white walls.