that girl

She was so pretty, in the way that girls who like to laugh are. Happy girls—you know. She made him feel so good when she laughed, like he had done something right to make her smile like that.

She knew, even now, that he still had this thing. For her. After all this time. Just a small thing, almost harmless. But she knew, in the way that girls do, and she danced with it a little, while they sat at that small little Mexican restaurant up on Harlem. It wasn’t mean of her to do it, because nothing real would happen. And everyone at the table knew it too—so it was okay. But he was still hurt, hurt that she'd never wanted him the way he'd wanted—wants— her, not really, never the way he wanted—wants— her.

And maybe no one else could really have him. Not with this small part of himself that he'd saved for her, a meek little candle burning bravely; a wartime wife. And despite all his best efforts, he found that he still thought about her late at night, or when he was having sex with other girls. And he didn't want to do that because it was the slightest bit painful, like cold water hitting a sore tooth. Like picking at a scab.

He wanted that small part of himself back. She owed him that. But he couldn't find it when he looked at her. All that was there was her sweet, sweet laugh that didn't quite seem like it could come out of her. Maybe he would let her keep him.