I am taken from my book when I hear the crash of the cars outside and sirens quickly approaching. From the balcony, one small, older car has rear-ended the truck in front of it. It is collapsed and they likely have not survived.

When the engines and the ambulances have approached, sirens silenced, they begin the extrication.

My girlfriend suddenly knocks on the door. I sigh relief.

“Hey babe, sorry - left my keys in the car,” she says as she juggles 3 reusable totes of groceries.

I help her bring them inside. She still has her headphones on over her ears, as she did when she left the house. She has the most beautiful, approachable smile and people cannot help but ask her questions at the grocery store. The headphones help her “stay focused” so she says. I know that truthfully, she is so introverted it tires her to speak to strangers in public.

But when she arrives home to me, and sees my face, feels the warmth of my presence, she is energized.

I offer to help her unload the groceries, with all of the fresh vegetables and hippie hygienic products she buys. She says yes, but when it’s time to prep the fruit and veggies, I must leave, for she can only focus doing it by herself. I also don’t chop the carrots right.

As we pack lettuce into the fridge and rice cakes into the pantry, she sings along to the Fleetwood Mac I can hear blaring in her headphones. She asks me if she is my Rhiannon and grabs my hands to dance. I stomp around the kitchen as she twirls herself around in my arms on
her feet light as a ghost’s. I have no rhythm, but I try to dance only for her. She sings to Stevie Nicks, off key on some of the high notes, but I close my eyes to listen to her. She does not know how truly beautiful her voice is.

She demands I leave the kitchen, although I protest. “Go back to your book” she says to me and kisses me so softly on the lips I almost think it’s not there. It tingles as I walk with reluctance back to the couch grinning, my stomach warm and churning over inside.

She washes and cuts strawberries, chops cucumbers, and sings Gold Dust Woman, not caring that I am reading. I only pretend; I can only listen to her singing. I squeeze my eyes shut so I can remember her voice, burn it into my brain and keep it on repeat. I pretend to keep reading.

I do my best to ignore the commotion outside. They’ve brought out the Jaws of Life and I turn back to look at her.

I’ve never known love until her. I have known girls before, but never have I loved a woman like her. I have no future without her in it. And I have never been able to relay this correctly to her.

“Tell me why you love me” she demands of me.

All I’m able to say to her is “I love everything about you”. But that’s not good enough for her. Details, she says.

How do I say to her that it’s true? I love her smile that invites everyone to her, even at the store, and her tiny arms around my chest when we hug, and her kitchen twirls, and her confidence, and her kiss. Oh, her kiss. I try to remember it on my lips. I remember it so light, like a warm breeze.

She sings The Chain as she puts away the last of the prepped veggies.

Suddenly she is quiet.

I close my eyes.

I know what is coming.

Again.

Without a word, she walks to the front door, headphones still on. I cannot look up, I cannot watch her leave.

I run onto the balcony and watch her get lifted from the car, headphones still on and bloody, by the firemen in dirty, brown bunker gear. She is laid down on the stretcher, covered in a thin white sheet, and the ambulance drives away in silence.