She was the first beaming face I'd see on a fated Monday morning, peering over the horizontal bars I sat behind. You're the one, she said. That moment, I knew that she would be the one too.
My girl was special to me. She wore oversized marigold sweaters; she smelled like fresh sun-dried laundry. She lived alone, on an isolated property far from neighbors or traffic. But she always insisted she was not lonely: she grew friends of sunflowers and peonies and hibiscus, friends that bloomed and curled at her touch. She kept herself busy with planting and cleaning and cooking. I'd follow her, digging holes in her yard and eating scraps of her Tuesday breakfast, sunny-side-up eggs. She was loud but affectionate, running her fingers through my spotted fur, laughing at the little licks of kisses I'd give her.
Her laughter was like a sunny Wednesday afternoon — mundane amidst all the sounds and sights of the world, but warm and reassuring. She didn't always laugh, though. On evenings, she was always quieter than the day, watering her vines of moonflowers in silence. Sometimes, a dark gloom would obscure her face, and she'd weep quietly, tears slipping down her cheeks in droplets. I didn't like it when she cried. So I was there for her, always, to lap up her tears and to rest my head on her shoulder.
Some days, we'd go tumbling down the gentle grass slopes of the land, mud from last Thursday's thunderstorm splashing onto the soles of her white tennis shoes. But she didn't mind, so I didn't either, tracking my paw prints behind her on a spiraling concrete road.
I would've liked to follow her for a long, long time. Except time always passed, ticking by year after year. At one point, the road had to come to an end. She was still my girl, glowing in her eternal youth, with her laughter like sunshine. But I didn't have her immortality, nor her sunshine laugh. My fur had grayed; my eyes had clouded; my walk had slowed. That Friday evening, I laid down. She seemed to notice.
On Saturday, she stayed with me for the full day.
On Sunday, the same.
I could already feel myself slipping away. My girl seemed more downcast than normal. I didn't want her to be. I didn't want her rainstorm eyes nor her raindrop tears. She hugged me, burying her head into the fur of my neck, as if she could sink down and vanish into the darkness of the universe. I looked up at her.
I knew that she would be alright. Because she was my girl, my sun, and I was just a passing asteroid in her orbit. When Monday morning arrived, I knew that she could rise again. And so, that was enough.