red dress

we're sitting on the plane, waiting for takeoff, and she nudges me with her elbow.

"look at this," she says, pointing to a magazine spread of models wearing, to my eyes, nearly identical red dresses. one of those "who wore it best?" pieces.

"which one do you think i'd want to wear?" she asked. i look at the photos. most of them are pretty short, one is strapless. all of them are red, and i have no clue what to say.

"come on," she teases, "just pick one."

she knows i hate these types of games. like if i really loved her i would know her particular desire for a certain dress. like i actually think before i point at one at random. like there's some facet of her that i have deep understanding about.

sometimes i'll get it right. others i pick the one she really hates, but usually it's just somewhere in between. i don't think it's fair that she does this to me. constantly reminds me of how boring and stale i am. how i desire to forge a deeper connection.

i don't say any of that. i pick the dress on the left.

"yea, that one's OK," she says.

"but not the one i love," i hear in my head.

happier than me

she sits in her minivan
in the back of the parking lot
of the local chinese place,
eating her food alone.

she takes up the whole seat,
her stomach doubling as a
table for her Styrofoam tray
filled with unhealthy food.

i think she is the epitome
of loneliness and depression.
i wonder what her home looks like,
messy, barren, and small.

then i realize two things,
first, that while i'm fit,
and though i have a good job,
i'm just as lonely as she is.

second, that despite her appearance,
i really don't know much about her,
or what her home may look like.
indeed, she could even be happy.