50

Meeting her would be impossible since she must have died decades ago. But I was in love and nobody else would do.

I didn’t know her name. I just found her picture in a bin of old photos at an antique store. Junk shop really. Probably all of the people in those picture are long dead. Maybe one survives, one of the youngest and even if he’s around, he’s probably got Alzheimer’s.

She was thin, wore a long tight fitting dress with fringes. Flapper gear. Even in the black and white photo, her deep set eyes were striking. She was looking directly at the camera, or perhaps at some lucky photographer. Her red lipsticked lips (what other color could they be?) were frozen in a half smile. A knowing half smile.

What did she know? That in 80 years or so, a young man would see her picture and fall in love, truly helplessly in love?

I became obsessive, crazy. I took her picture and the dog, left my wife and kid, and just drove away. I understood that she was nowhere, but I still had to look for her.

We settled into a tiny efficiency apartment in a nameless town. I had a copy made of her photo, a life-sized copy. I bought some markers to add color. Her lips, I restored them to a deep red. I didn’t use a marker. I used lipstick.

The dog humped my leg as my lips met hers, my eyes closed. First lightly and then with more passion. They felt soft, smooth, nothing like paper taped to drywall.

I opened my eyes and looked into hers. They were a deep brown, which was odd because I hadn’t touched them with the markers yet. Arms reached around my shoulders, then my neck. Tighter.

Her knowing smile turned to a smirk. Am I crazy or is she strangling me?