“Pour mon amour, j’aime tes yeux
Et j’aime ton sourire
J’aime ton rire
Pour mon amour.”
Colby pressed the letter to his lips. As he kissed the paper, he could smell her perfume. Pink Sugar. It smelled like cotton candy. He pictured them together at the fair, hand in hand.
Footfalls matching up. The peppermint striped cone of billowing bubble-gum pink clouds clutched in her free hand.
He remembered smiling with her, glancing at the small gap between her two front teeth. The gap she claimed was wider than the Amazon river. The gap she claimed you could fit a pencil through.
He stroked the lavender page, watching as watery splotches appeared on the text, blurring his vision and swirling the letters and words around. Swirling like how you make cotton candy.
Colby remembered the way her bracelets jingled on her wrist. The loose metal bands, the pink rubber bracelets adorned with a deeper pink band. The static hospital band.
He remembered watching her wither away in the hospital bed. He remembered the frail hand. So different from the hand he held at the fair.
He remembered sitting in the metal folding chair, perpendicular to her bed. He recalled the pattern of white and green tiles on the floor. Three white for every green. Twentyfive green.
Seventyfive white. He remembered hearing the long, steady beep. He remembered standing besides her bone white coffin.
Before they put her six feet under, he had put a solitary ribbon on her coffin.
He put the letter on the rim of the bathtub, the water sloshing around at his movement. He blew out the candles providing the light. He picked up the razor blade.