Mandy used to love hot chocolate.
Once, we walked down to the coffee shop, both in our post-high faze, groggy-eyed. Her hand was in mine, warm against cold. When we entered the shop, Mandy didn’t hesitate to order a peppermint hot cocoa, asking for extra whip cream, and then, turning to me, she asked, “What ‘bout you?”
“The same."
I figured, if it was good enough for her, it was good enough for me.
We walked through the snowy park, drinks in hand, brewing a fire in our hearts. By this time, the lights had gone out, nothing but a blanket of thick, dark air around us, and, right by the swing set, Mandy stopped, and turned to me, so her face was only a breath away.
“X,” she whispered, smelling of mint and chocolate and Christmas and joy. “You’re far too beautiful to be mine. You know that, right?”
No, I didn’t.
I still don’t.
“Really, it’s the other way ‘round,” I said, my voice even lower than hers.
She stared at me, and, though the suburban, twinkling holiday lights brightened her grey irises, there was nothing happy about her expression.
“No,” she said, and I could tell she was slicing herself with every word, knife against throat. “No, because I am a disease and you’re the shot that saves everyone. I’m an old hat, with a thread loose. One pull, one tug, and I’ll be a pile of nothing.”
There was no way to respond, nothing for me to say, so, instead, I simply leant forward and kissed her.
Maybe, if she’d been a graphite statue like you, I could’ve saved Mandy from herself.
Maybe.
