There’s a side of his face that’s prettier than the other. No part of him is dull or ugly, but one side is more vibrant. It’s his right side.
Don’t get me wrong — a world in which only his left side exists is still one I’d want to be a part of. I’d rather live in a world that only his left side was in than one in which he wasn’t there at all.
He told me once that beauty is a difficult thing to describe — that it has less to do with general appearance and more with feeling.
“Awe and beauty. They’re connected,” he said, “you can’t have one without the other.”
Now, I turn my ring and watch the light from the window bounce off of the diamond — square-cut, gold band. I think about how he was right. It’s beautiful and awesome at the same time.
He and I sat with a mutual friend of ours once. He didn’t want me to sit on the cold, hardwood floor, so I sat at the dining room table, and he sat on the floor and so did she. When he sat, he eyed the gap between them, and then slid further away from her.
We’re all artists. I was choreographing a performance in which he was meant to dance with me while she sang. We spoke of many things that night. Grief. Strength. Anxiety. Depression. Love.
She was in love with a boy she’d seen twice already at school. When she shared, his eyes fluttered to mine and they rolled. We shared a quiet, half-laugh over this endeavor of hers. I knew how he felt about love and he knew how I felt about it.
We shared the same sentiment: it wasn’t that easy — nor did it last.
Now, at this coffee shop, I pick up my phone and scroll through my feed. I like a recent post of this girl’s — now a woman. She married her boy from school one year ago.
Once, he and I tumbled down a grassy hill together. I don’t remember what led to it or why we thought that’d be a good idea, but I do remember he offered me his hand before we started walking. I swat it away and he laughed. The heels of my boots dug into the muddy terrain — slick from a recent rain — and we both slid down as if we were sledding. I had dirt in my hair, on my face, and my clothes were ruined. But he was worse. His earlobes were covered with mud, and I didn’t dare make him mad! I was scared he’d fling some of it at me — or intentionally spread it all over me.
It wasn’t until I was driving away, fifteen minutes later, a stupid grin plastered on my face, that I wondered how taking his hand would’ve helped either of us stabilize ourselves.
Now, I trace my fingers along the grooves in the wooden table I’m sitting at. The texture reminds me of hardened mud, but nicer. Dirty with a smooth, silky finish.
When I hopped in his truck once, the layer of dust on the dashboard was thick. I blew on it with all my might. The effort sent both of us into sneezing fits. Pretty soon we were laughing, tears blurring my vision. Even with that visual obstruction though, I could tell which side of his face I liked more. The right. It was always the right.
“Elle? Are you listening to me?”
I snap out of my daydream and back to reality. My fiance — whom I met two years ago — is sitting across from me at this coffee shop, arms and ankles crossed. The sides of his eyes are crinkled, but his forehead isn’t. The patience on his face wounds me.
I watch as he takes a deep breath.
He asks, “What’s going on in that pretty mind?”
I know I shouldn’t, but I wince when he says ‘pretty.’ That’s what he calls me. Not beautiful or awesome.
I swallow.
“Just thinking about an old friend.”
Rayna Wilson is an award-winning short story author. Her publications include The Exemplar, Tributaries, Andromeda Literary Magazine, and Memezine Literary. In May of 2023, she graduated from Dalton State College, and since then has been excited to add ghostwriting, proofreading, and beta reading to her resume.
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