him.

       There is a story about red threads. They say the gods tie them around your pinky finger, connecting you to another person’s pinky finger, connecting two people who are fated to meet.

             I knew from the first moment I spoke to him that he was one of those people. I noticed the little things. The way he laughed with his whole being. The way he stood with his arms slightly out, as if he was floating. The way he unconsciously reached towards what he wanted as he walked towards it. For a while, that was me.

             He had an eye for beautiful things. No, that’s not it. He had a knack for making things appear beautiful. He had the gentlest smile as he snapped photographs of me laughing, of his friends goofing off. I wonder what his face looked like when he deleted those same pictures. I wonder if he even discarded them.

             I think I always had the feeling he would leave. I read the words in my head: this can’t last. Still, I held onto that red thread for dear life. As long as it was there, we were connected. As long as it was there, I could pretend this was forever. But it wasn’t and it ended in the ugliest way imaginable, as all things do. Red string gnawed off, or dipped in gasoline and lit with a match. Red string too tight around my finger, cutting off my circulation as I desperately yanked at it. Leaving me with only pain and wounds to tend to. Leaving me with only regret, because I know this was not worth it.

             Maybe in the next life, if there is one, I’ll have my arms removed.