They’d been seeing bits of themselves since they’d been seeing each other. They both had long eyelashes, for instance. She didn’t look like herself today. When he told her that, she snapped, What else do I look like? He couldn’t think of anything else. They’d been sitting on the grass for some time before he realized it was still damp. Even through the blanket, it had wet her skirt. She stood and patterns from the grass crossed her ankles like spider webs. He turned away.
An old woman walked by with a fat dog. He saw now that the park was full of dog walkers, strutting by the two of them like a parade. Every dog looked like something else. He did not share this with her. He got up to take a closer look. There was a dog that looked like a tiger. Another, a buffalo. One day he realized he could only ever picture her when he pictured himself. Soon after, he saw other people instead.
Rebekah Bergman is an MFA candidate at The New School and the associate editor of NOON. Her writing has appeared in Necessary Fiction, Everyday Genius, Tin House’s Open Bar, and The Feminist Wire.