love is

Love is a lot of things.

(please, listen as you read)

Love is a lot of things.

It makes you feel… everything.

Love, real love takes away the filters.

Love is…

Magical.

Pure.

Terrible.

They met at a bar. O’Reilly’s or O’Malleys or O’Callaghan’s or something like that.

It was St. Patrick’s Day.

He wore green. She wore orange.

She told him there was just as much of both colors on the Irish flag.

He couldn’t argue.

She pinched him for not wearing any orange.

He liked that.

She joked that it had been a blind date, only no one had set them up to meet.

That made him laugh.

They had a second date, then a third.

She was an artist.

He was an accountant.

They had a fourth date, then a fifth.

He made her lasagna.

She made his bed the next morning.

By the tenth date, she had a key to his condo.

By the fifteenth date she moved in.

She slept on the left side of the bed.

He let her pick out new clothes.

It was love. Real love.

Magical.

Pure.

They were married.

She spent more time in the studio.

He spent more time in the office. It was tax season.

He came home late.

She was covered in red paint.

He was with a client, he said.

She knew better.

She was covered in red paint… and blood.

Love is…

Magical.

Pure…

…terrible.

He never came home late again.