Broken People by Scott Hildreth

you.”
    And it made sense. The statement that I had heard so many times. My heart belongs to someone else.
    I looked at my watch. 8:00. Things happen. I opened the refrigerator. I removed a slice of lasagna from the dish in the refrigerator. I ate it cold. I brushed my teeth. I looked at my watch. 8:10. I walked into my bedroom and changed my shirt. Looking in the mirror , I felt at peace with who I had become. Mentally. Physically. Emotionally. I looked at my watch. 8:15. I placed the dirty shirt in the laundry room. The doorbell rang. I ran my fingers through my hair. I opened the door, and there she stood. She was crying. I felt sick.
    “What’s wrong?” I asked.
    “My father,” she responded. “I posted something on Twitter about you. Not much, just talking about you. How you make me feel,” she wiped away her tears, and continued, “someone said something to someone, who said something to someone else, and then someone’s parent called my father and said I was dating a white boy.”
    She stood there, in my arms, with my heart in her chest, and sobbed. I held her. She hurt. I hurt with her. She placed her head on my shoulder. I ran my fingers through her silky smooth black hair. Tall, thin and curvaceous, she stood, looking back into my eyes.  “I’m sorry, Britney. But. K now this. I cannot imagine a day without you in it.”
    She smiled. We kissed. “I’m scared,” she said looking at me w ith her beautiful brown eyes. 
    “Of what? ” I looked into her beautiful eyes when I spoke.
    “That… ” she responded. And her mouth stayed open. But. No sound.
    And then, she cont inued, “I’m afraid I love you.”
    I reached to the back of the chair, and got my leather coat. I wrapped her in it. “Britney,” I said, “I love you, and I am not afraid.” I placed my hands on each side of her face and looked into her eyes, and continued, “Together, we can get through anything. You’re Egyptian, I’m American. You’re Orthodox, I’m Catholic. But, we are both human . Your ethnicity or religion does not come into play. Not to me. How I feel does.”
    She looked at me. Pul ling my coat tight to her body, she spoke. “I feel the same way, Marc, but I am afraid my father doesn’t. Nor will he. But, that doesn’t change the way I feel. I love you. You love me, let’s just be together. Tonight. And every night. I want every night to end with you in my arms.”
    I slowly walked toward the bedroom. She followed. I looked at my watch. 8:30. “When do you have to be home?” I asked.
    “11:00,” she said. We embraced. I held her. Time passed. We fell on the bed. And there we remained. I touched her face with my fingers. We kissed. She smiled. I took off my shirt and began to lie beside her.
    “I like lo oking at your body,” she said.
    “Thank you. I like looking at you, period,” I responded. She removed her shirt. She asked for help with her bra. We embraced. Our skins touched. I felt her heart beat against my chest. I felt my heart beating. Our h eartbeats became one. One heartbeat. We became one. Time passed. I looked at my watch. 10:10. I stood. She remained on the bed, defining beauty.
    “It’s getting close to eleven, baby. You should probably get up,” I said, looking for my shirt. I ran my hands through my hair.
    “Stand right there,” she said. “Don’t move.” I stood. She reached to the side of the bed, and got her phone from her purse. She held it at arm ’s length. “Don’t move,” she said.
    “I heard you,” I responded. I stood. She took three photos. “I wish I could paint a picture of you,” I said.
    “Do you paint?” she asked.
    “No,” I responded, “But I wish I could. I would paint a picture of you right now, lying there without your shirt. I could stand here, Britney, and admire you for all of what is forever. You make me want to cry. But. That part of me is broken.”
    “I know,” she said. “I know.”
    “Take a picture of me, and you can look at it