I saw her grin out of the corner of my eye. “You are,” she agreed.
I scowled at her for a moment, and then paused again, trying to find away to put my thoughts into words. This Sunday I’d made a choice. I’d chosen Brit.
I don’t make difficult decisions very well, and this one had required a lot more honesty to myself than I had in me. Somehow, though, I’d managed it.
It was obvious, really, the whole time. My first girlfriend after Brit was Naira. My favorite thing about her was her eyes: large, with the same golden-brown tint as Brit’s.
My next girlfriend had a shockingly similar personality as Brit. This was, of course, my favorite thing about her.
The next, I swear, had the same hair as Brit. Honestly, it was the only thing I’d liked about that one.
The pattern continued over the two years: I dated girls who had some quality that reminded me of Brit. And yet, still, it wasn’t right.
It was silly, really. All this time, I’d been looking to replace Brit, when a replacement wasn’t even necessary.