[ WP ] Begin with the sentence , `` I am alone , but I am happy '' .

*I am alone, and I am happy. * 
 
 That was true, for awhile. A solitary existence is n't an unpleasant one, after all. Life came like a series of snapshots, moments in time captured through emotions I could n't really explain -- a twinge of loneliness, a modicum of longing, the faintest stirring of discontentment that I could never quite place. 
 
 In real love stories, the girl is always doing something cute, feminine, her sweet summer dress fluttering in the breeze behind her like she's a fucking butterfly or something, a butterfly that went through metamorphosis simply for the *honour* of meeting The Most Charming Man On Earth, falling in love with him, and having his little charming children. I have never been charming. I was buying chicken at Sainsbury's. 
 
 There I was, contemplating, two chicken breasts balanced delicately in my hands like some sort of avian erotic art, just confusing enough in medium and mantra to be a `` stylistic choice'', designed to convey a *feeling* and be all around very difficult to contend with in a sensible way. There I was, and he came over to *me*. 
 
 `` Do you need any help?'' 
 
 `` Do people usually need help when they're buying chicken?'' 
 
 `` Sometimes. It can be a difficult business.'' 
 
 I laughed. I could n't help it. His eyes were so blue I was sure a sailor or two had drowned in them. 
 
 `` You could just get both,'' he pointed out, gesturing to the chicken breasts. `` You never know when you might need some extra chicken.'' 
 
 `` I never need extra chicken.'' 
 
 `` Well, you might.'' 
 
 `` How would you know?'' 
 
 `` In about twenty minutes, you're going to ask me out on a date, and I'm going to very happily accept. I do like chicken.'' 
 
 He was n't bad looking. He had floppy hair, the sort that screams `` I'm a misunderstood poet with a day job'', and an earnest smile that was the slightest bit crooked on the left side. 
 
 `` You do n't even know my name,'' I countered. 
 
 `` Well, what's your name?'' 
 
 `` Lucy.'' 
 
 `` Sam.'' He extended his hand, but my suddenly ludicrous chicken predicament kept me from doing anything but gawp. He reached out, grabbed both jiggly cuts from my slightly shaking hands, and put them in my basket. 
 
 `` I'll see you at eight.'' 
 
 * * * 
 
 At eight he showed up on my doorstep in a suit that fit rather poorly, and by half eight I knew he was The One when he looked up from chopping onions and gave me the softest grin I'd ever seen, like melted butter and cookie dough running through the contours of my soul. He was electric and all I wanted from the world was to be his wire, and suddenly everything I'd ever heard about love fell into place with that nagging discontentment, and I felt the rush of satisfaction that only comes from puzzle with the final piece slotted into place. This was It. *It with a capital I, Lucy. Do n't fuck it up. * 
 
 I married Sam a year later, in June. There were flowers; I wore white. We promised things, things I'd known since the first time I saw his face light up at half eight bent over a chopping board -- in sickness and in health, till death do us part. 
 
 But the real problem with the butterfly girls is that nothing ever goes *wrong* for them. They have all the Kodak moments, like when Sam bent his lips towards mine on my front stoop and told me my kiss tasted like chicken; like the first time we fucked, when I brushed his hair so gently out of his eyes during something so carnal, so rough, but nothing else -- their life is a series of badly written Hallmark cards strung together by the dullness of perfection. And I hate them for it, I hate them because I just want to watch one film where that annoyingly infallible relationship gets torn apart by something so stupid, so unpredictable, that nothing can put them back together again -- I want to see suicide and lightning strikes, I want to see stoichasticity and character flaws. Because that's what life is. It's sloppy. 
 
 * * * 
 
 The aisles in Sainsbury's had changed; they'd reorganised. I waited almost instinctively, balancing two chicken breasts in my hands, six years later, as though suddenly a pair of bright blue eyes would appear over my shoulder and change everything as they once did. 
 
 The drive to the hospital was wordless. Sometimes I'd talk to myself, or listen to the radio; today, silence, except the clattering of the Tupperware in the passenger seat. 
 
 His room was large, that was something. There were wilting flowers in the vase by his bed, the only thing in the room that was n't an unappealing, sterile white; I'd brought them a week ago, and forgotten to change them. I liked that there was something alive, there, with him. I felt a stab of guilt run through me that I'd let them die. 
 
 `` Hey, Sam. It's me. I brought you chicken.'' 
 
 His eyes opened blearily, the same slow, agonising way they had ever since the crash. His face showed no sign of recognition. 
 
 *I was happy, and now I am alone. * 
 
 
 

