Picture Perfect

By Zehrocket

I have a picture of her, you know.

It's mixed in with my stash of pictures of me, the ones I look at in my spare time. I'm not completely narcissistic...because there's a picture of her in there, too.

There's more than one picture, actually. But who's counting?

The cat counts. He counts every damn thing when he's rummaging through our personal collections, seeking entertainment in the soap opera playing in his fantasy.

Fantasy is all it is, and all it will ever be. Because I've been searching too, searching when she's not looking, searching for my picture among her items. But I never find it.

I find a picture of her "first love." A bastard who dumped her, no doubt, because there's no one good enough to truly appreciate the strength of her actions.
I appreciate the strength of her actions, they're personified as bruises on my skin. Each of them is worn proudly, despite the pain.

I do not voice these emotions. I rarely speak of anything serious-- I hate to upset her.

Still.

I am upset that she doesn't carry one goddamned picture of me.

She could easily ask me for one, and I'd give her my best! Pictures are important things! The pictures you carry around in your wallet, they're the ones you show people. You hint at the things which are important in your life through boasting photographs. If I were to show the world what was important to me, I would have it on hand! I would boast Jessie, even though I have no official boasting rights.

And Jessie would boast soccer boy.

If she were presented a camera by that photographer twerp, I know who she'd capture.

She'd capture more pictures of her first love, she'd capture pictures of the mysterious brown haired stranger she's mentioned. She'd pulverize me so she could take a trip to the hospital and capture Dr. Proctor. She has her harem...

And I have mine. My 8 by 10 glossies of a girl with red hair, a picture perfect girl who's captured me in her ice blue eyes.

I think it's all I'll ever have.