Shelley
by D.T. Robbins, January 10th 2023

Shelley died on our one-year anniversary. I don’t know. I think about it a lot, I guess.

 

Shelley wanted a puppy but didn’t want to buy one and didn’t want to go to the pound because the pound just made her too depressed. So, we followed a few stray dogs behind Red Carpet Liquor. She asked if she could take them all home, to be their mama. The dogs snarled and shook when we got near them. Shelley stretched out her arms, said, mama loves you. The dogs took off into the woods. Shelley took off after them. I took off after Shelley. We followed the dogs across three continents, four time zones, and all the abandoned malls in the world until we got to their home. There, they wore suits and ties and had tattoos. They drove SUVs and subscribed to at least three different streaming services, even paying extra for no ads. Shelley cried when she realized they didn’t need her, didn’t need a mama. She said she just wanted to be useful. We left, bought bus tickets home. The bus broke down on the side of a mountain. Everyone on the bus grabbed their luggage, slid down the side of the mountain. Even the driver. We’re all alone, Shelley said. What a disaster, she said. I agreed. What a horrible, lovely, miracle of a disaster, I said. A plane flew overhead. Passengers jumped out, parachuted down to earth. One of the parachutes opened, exploded into confetti that was every color of the rainbow. I asked Shelley to marry me. I told her I loved her more than anyone I’ve ever known. I told her that I’d burst into a billion particles and scatter out into nothingness, out toward the edge of the ever-expanding universe if I ever lost her. I’m not at all dramatic. I’m a warrior of love. Blood on my chest, flesh in my teeth. She said I was being weird, but…Yes! Yes! A ba-jillion times yes! We walked down the mountain, got married at a Love’s Travel Stop because love is rad and it was romantic as fuck. The clerk married us, said we were gonna live happily ever after. Yay! Outside, a little girl was selling a litter of puppies. I bought all ten of them, put them in the backseat of our rental car to surprise Shelley. They threw up everywhere. She didn’t care, said it was the best day ever. We found an open strawberry field and ate and made wine and drank and got drunk and wrestled and snuggled with our puppies. Angels played their harps from heaven as our spirits floated above our bodies, watching as we fucked and made noises neither of us knew we could make. I came inside of her, and she created life. We drove home, listened to Nada Surf on the radio. The sun smiled, said, we’re so proud of you, withdrew behind the skyline. Shelley fell asleep holding my hand in both of hers.

 

Shelley died on our one-year anniversary. I don’t know. I think about it a lot, I guess.