I'm the picture frame around the photo of the woman and him. Happier times. They're long gone now. He's told me that much.

I remember when he first picked me out. He had shuffled through the store, disinterested in the usual clamor of children whining for the latest toy and the checkout machines beeping in another item. I watched him as he neared my case. He was handsome in a rough way, as if someone had painted Prince Charming and then brushed it with sandpaper. His hair was red-brown, the color of cinnamon, and none too neat either. The remains of a rough beard were scattered across his chin. His skin was a medium-tan—from summers at her parents' cabin, I've been told since. His eyes were a dark blue, with flecks of green and yellow-brown. Glance and they'd look more like a quiet pond than a raging ocean. Look deeper, and see the flash of disdain for the world's shiny treasures, sometimes morphing into outright defiance and determination to do something worth doing. I've seen it happen. Not often, but it does happen.

That day he was wearing tattered black sneakers, blue jeans, and the t-shirt from a restaurant. ‘Red Rhonda’s Bar And Grill,' I can still remember all these years later. Their logo was a seductive-looking woman with a scarlet bob and short white dress reclining on a pale green couch. Unappealing, to say the least. The main shirt was a hideous mustard yellow, but he didn't seem to care.

“Charles?” called a high-pitched voice with an accent—British, if I'm not mistaken. Something about the voice seemed wrong, though. Too sweet, like artificially fruit-flavored cough syrup. The man's lips tightened, but he didn't turn around.

“Charles, there you are! How's life been treating you?” It was a younger woman. She had the same red-brown hair, but hers was much longer—and twisted into a stylish updo. I must say, she had considerably more fashion sense than he did. Her eyes were pale blue, the color of a hatched robin's egg, and every bit as empty. Her face was heavily painted, making her look more like a china doll than a human. Her skin was ghost pale, although I couldn't tell if the pale was natural. Probably not. She wore a chic aqua blouse and designer jeans, a small purse slung casually over her shoulder.

“Beat it, Shailene,” Charles muttered, still staring at me. His eyes had changed color, and they were darker now. Harder. The blue had become navy, and the greens and browns had turned into a mixed brown-black shade. Still handsome, but a stronger, stonier handsome.

“That's no way to greet your sister! Your only sister,” she added, positioning herself between me and Charles. She was short enough that I could still see over the top of her head, but Charles's fists clenched.

“Shailene, I'm not talking with you right now.”

She laughed a short, brittle laugh. “Oh, Charles, you've gotten over that little incident, haven't you? It's been seven months,” she added as an afterthought.

“Your antics cost me Analise,” Charles said in a low voice. “Your attention-seeking, spoiled rotten ‘me first’ attitude cost me the only woman that's ever given me a second glance.”

“You're awfully—” Shailene broke in, but Charles shut her up with a brusque gesture.

“Beat it, Shailene,” he said again.

Her crayoned face lowered into a pout. “Charlie—”

“I mean it, Shailene.” He grabbed me, ignoring Shailene's ever-opening mouth, and strode off towards the cash register.

“Only Ana calls me Charlie,” he muttered to me, as Shailene faded into the distance. “And she's gone now. Thanks to that little— that little cough drop.”

Cough drop, Shailene? I considered it. Yes, it did fit the artificially sweet, good for you but not appetizing woman.

Charles smiled a little. “Ana didn't like what she called ‘bar talk’,” he confided. “So instead, we used food. Apples, sourdough bread, sausages, dinner mints, things like that.”

I decided it was a good alternative.

“Thanks,” Charles whispered to me, quieter now that we were closer to the cash register. Something about his expression told me that he didn't think the cashier would think highly of the tough young man talking to a picture frame with nothing in it. “I'll have to stop now,” he said, even more quietly. “But you'll make a beautiful frame for my Ana.”

I had nothing more to add.

nice!