It’s pretty easy to picture them together: the tall, loud heartbeat and his angel made of spring. You only have to hold the image in your head for a minute or two before it seems like the only picture that’s ever made any sense.

His voice is above and beyond what is considered an appropriate indoor volume, but he wears it proudly. Calls people by their full names, shouts them from around the corner so everyone knows he’s coming. 

She takes up so little space—but in a cute way. In a sexy way. Small in a way that is desirable and not destructive. She isn’t sick. Her cheeks are caught in a permanent rosiness that never purples or drifts too far from charming.

He peels back his rough skin and shows tenderness. Leaves callouses on the wall hook underneath his coat. Taught himself softness so he could touch a woman, touch a piano, touch a firefly (aren’t they all the same thing anyway?). Learned gentle and kept it hidden underneath his tongue.

Her teeth are straight. Her laugh is gentle and has never known how to be obnoxious. She holds her glass of sangria at his family’s Fourth of July barbecue and her hands are smooth and perfectly manicured. 

They go skinny dipping in her pool. 

He takes her dog for walks. 

At the park, she stands against a brick wall, holding a flower. Her makeup is perfectly done. He takes forty-three pictures of her. The same thing happens at the bowling alley. At the pizzeria. At their breakfast table while she drinks cold brew and eats watermelon.

They travel together and look like they were made to be photographed next to each other. In Italy. In Spain. In Austria. 

She talks him into shaving his head. And he does, and he likes himself better this way.

He is sweet. He is thoughtful. He was never good with words, but he writes her poems anyway. His eyes are starry with the thought that the prettiest girl in the room could want him.

Suspended in midair during another flight back to his parents’ house, they don’t stop holding hands for almost three hours. Not when the flight attendant asks them if they would like something to drink. Not when they are making sure their tray tables are locked and in the upright position. Not when they deplane or collect their luggage from the carousel.

Once, I heard someone say that if you think about it long enough, you can picture yourself marrying anyone. 

It must be like that. 

If you picture them long enough, sprawled out on her neatly made bed while wearing exfoliating face masks and watching bad reality television, it’s almost like they’ve always been there. It’s almost like a fairytale, something to hope for, something you want for your own but don’t get your hopes up about. It’s almost like theirs is the only picture of love that’s ever made any sense.