Reminder by James D. Irwin

Zoey drinks with a straw and spells her name with a y. It’s spelt different, sounds the same. She’s had to say that a lot, usually with a bit lip or a roll of her wide green eyes.

We were sat outside, laughing more than talking. It was cool for a summer evening. Her pretty floral dress rippled in the breeze. Zoey is perfect, and for those few minutes so am I.

Then Tom arrives and Zoey stands and they kiss and she gives me back my jacket and they wave goodbye. Slumped against the wall I take a drink and watch her walk away. I always watch her walk away and it always hurts, more or less.

Zoey is a reminder of a lesson I will never have the courage to learn— that it is no harder to tell a girl you love her than to pretend that you don’t.