20

                                    

                                          


                          
"How do you that?" he asks.

                          
     "Do what?" she mumbles into his sweater, pulling away and looking up at him.
                          
     "Cry pretty," he answers. She laughs. "Most people, when they cry, have really ugly, obnoxious faces. But you are still really pretty." She chuckles again and stares at his bright eyes as he wipes the tears that fall, rubbing his thumbs under her eyes.
                          
     "Thank you," she whispers, sinking into his embrace again. She closes her eyes.
                          
     "For what?" he asks. She smiles sadly. 
                          
     "For being in my life," she tells him, pulling away again. "And for letting me get your sweater wet," she smiles, wiping at his chest where her tears are wiping off her cheeks.
                          
     "Always," he promises. She closes her eyes, more tears spilling over, and she pushes her head tighter onto his chest. "Always," he repeats.
                          
     They stay like that for close to five minutes. He hugs her tight around the top of her back, and she relishes in the feeling of safety, closing her eyes and letting the tears fall.
                          
     After they part ways and she starts to drive, she can't help but let the tears fall, harder and faster. This is becoming something of a habit. One she doesn't want to continue. After five minutes of driving she cries out in anguish, pulling over into a parking lot just off the main road. The outdoor theatre that sits across from it is covered in snow, but she doesn't notice it much, because she turns her car off and falls apart.
                          
     She cries harder.
                          
     He is wrong. Very wrong. She is not a pretty crier. Not when she really gets going. Tears that stain her cheeks rub off on the end of her jacket sleeve, the sleeve soon becoming damp from tears. Her breaths are short, ragged, and heavy-sounding, and the sound produced sounds wet, anguished. 
                          
     She struggles to calm down, watching the cars go by, wondering if he's already gone by. Watching the cars calms her down, though as soon as she stops watching them and focuses back on her ever-present reality, she starts crying again.
                          
     She stays in that parking lot, watching the cars, for 20 minutes. She cries and cries until no more tears come, but the sound is still produced, making her throat feel raw and dry. When she is finally calm, she turns the car back on and drives. She doesn't sing along to the radio or make any noise. She is almost lifeless, wondering why things like this happen to her, and what she did to deserve them.