You are twenty one, a senior. Your lips my lips apocalypse, Cigarettes After Sex plays in the background; a soothing voice often helps you concentrate , while your girlfriend lays next to you, with her pink tutu, her purple spandex, her too-thick-eyeliner that smudges a little from the ends. This one is blonde, reminds you of butterscotch and honey every time you kiss her. She has a nice body. You have hope for this one. It lasts a month and a half. She sleeps with your best friend, and your roommate, and your roommate’s best friend.
This one is a brunette, she paints her lips in shades of orange and sometimes burgundy, depending on the color of her bra. You figured that out the second night, after you ice-skated. You tell her she is pretty before you sleep, every night, because she is, and she should know. This one you marry, not in the church though, since you both aren’t religious. She is agnostic you are spiritual, or somewhere in that zone. You tell her she is pretty, but she goes back to sleep without saying anything. She says she is bored then moves out. You get a text during class, you are late paying alimony. You sleep with someone prettier, there’s more brown in her hair than the last one.
Download this dating app, this has the best ones, your best friend tells you.
You do it, go out, and meet a nice Indian one.
This one you cannot place, her hair changes colors depending on the time of the day. At midnight, it reflects the silver of the moon sliding through the edges of your doorway that opens up to the balcony. At noon it’s honey, at four it’s auburn. At six, she is at home, in your kitchen cooking a curry. You stereotype her, she breaks every one of them. She asks a lot of questions, you answer them. You learn how to say Namaste. She laughs and walks away.
You go to India where she shows you the tree behind which she kissed for the first time. She shows you her school and you meet all her friends. You stand in a corner awkwardly as they talk in Hindi, you wonder what a delightful girl she is, and you think you are lucky.
You come back, she is still there. You think this one will last, this one will last a lifetime. You adopt a puppy, name her Megha. She says it reminds her of the rain. She reminds you of rain. But the rain is cold and wet. You wonder. You fall out of love. She takes Megha with her. You forget how to say Namaste.
Samia Ahmed is a first year MFA Creative Writing student at Old Dominion University. She is originally from India where she has been published in nationally recognized journals. She has a masters in journalism. She believes in breaking stereotypes and continues to practice it while petting pretty black cats and sipping chai.