. . .

Her eyes were brown, like the soil.

Her lips were a dark pink when she didn't wear lipstick. She did, occasionally, though I preferred when she didn't.

Her hair was brown with golden highlights. I knew those came from a bottle. I didn't complain about that, though.

Her breasts were small but wellformed. Firm to the touch.

Her body was almost boyish. Slim, the curves there mostly as insinuations then realities, an impression enhanced by the loose clothing she liked to wear.

Her mind was sharp. Unpleasantly so at times, as her tongue was equally sharp. She'd turn it on me sometimes, when I had done something that particularly displeased her. I would end up screaming at her, and stomp out of the room.

Her skin was a rosy hue. She told me, when I first met her, that her father was a fullblood Cherokee. When I met him, I found out that he was actually Mexican. She never explained why she had lied about it. By that time, I was too captured by her to care.

Her mouth was always smiling slightly, even when she slept. Like she was holding a secret from the world. It gave her an air of mystery.

Her body was warm. So warm.

Her past was clouded. I knew, because she'd told me, that she'd borne a child which she'd given up for adoption. She never explained who the father was. I used to worry about that sometimes, making up stories in my head. Was he a highschool sweetheart? Had he raped her? A one-night stand? Did she even know? It became a game, then faded completely. I never mentioned it to her. I was afraid to.

Her ears came to the slightest of points.

Her mouth, when she was really angry, would become a thin line, with the slightest upward twitch at the end that was the smile. Her voice would be quiet then, when it rarely was the rest of the time.

Her occupation was art. Not making, but selling other people's. She told me that she used to paint semiprofessionally, but that she had met so many people with so much more talent that she had dropped out of that end of the game. I made dutiful noises about how fabulous her paintings actually were, but secretly I agreed with her decision. She had some talent, but some wasn't enough.

Her habits were just a trifle too neat to be called sloppy, but just on the borderline. She had been mildly alcoholic, but managed to get rid of it when we found out about the child. She credited me with half the effort in helping her quit, but I didn't do much. She always had self-control, she had just needed motivation in applying it.

Her bed was where she stayed, with the covers over her head, when she was most depressed. She stayed there for three days when we found out about the child. She almost slid back into the bottle then. I can honestly claim some credit for helping her with that.

Her driving was always uniformly awful. She'd stare straight ahead, with just the tip of her tongue protruding from the corner of her mouth, and drive with total concentration and utter lack of skill. We always used to joke about it. I wouldn't let her drive whenever I could possibly do so myself.

Her blood was very red on the street.

Her blood was very very very red on the street.

Her funeral was an empty sham, with a pastor that had never met her and whose eulogy consisted of retreaded half-truths and no real idea of who she was.

This was who she was. And how I'm going to have to remember her.