I brush my teeth three times a day. I probably brush too much, as I have a fear of receding gums. That however, doesn't stop me. Sometimes I will brush a fourth time if the need or want strikes. It can be a pain, but I feel I reap the benefits. My teeth are straight and white. It makes my smile bright and genuine, which seems especially important these days.


My last girlfriend loved my smile. She would rave about how jealous she was. She had a fantastic smile herself, even though she had a snaggletooth that she hated. I thought it was endearing and cute. Her name was Emily, which reminded me of Emily Bronte, one of my favorite authors. Emily had many quirks; she would play with her long dark curly hair, twirling it between her fingers when she was nervous. She always made me nervous, butterflies in my stomach just being around her, breathing in her aroma. She always smelt of orchids and white chocolate. She would take paper and rip it into tiny shreds when she was thinking hard about something. I picked up the habit. I find that I shred paper constantly now. I have a lot to think about, I don't get much sleep these days.


And when I do sleep, I dream of her. For me, despite all her quirks and even some flaws, she was perfection. When we met and I first looked into her luminous green eyes, part of me came alive. When I flashed her a smile, she blushed and became fidgety. At that moment I knew nothing would be the same.


We began dating almost immediately. We tried to keep it low key, secret. We took things very slowly; I didn't have any need to rush. She was already so special to me, pushing her away was not an option. I remember all the good times first, one might suggest that I am a bit obsessed with the memories. We would go for long drives to the coast, where even if it was chilly I would hold her for hours underneath the stars. She always inspired my romantic side. We would often write love notes to one another, talking about our feelings, our future, and sometimes sex when we were in the right mood.


We had been seeing each other for about seven months when I asked her to marry me. I remember the look on her face, the utter joy. She choked back tears and kissed me. It was the happiest moment of my life, too bad such happiness rarely lasts.


One day while I was at work, I had two unexpected visitors. I worked at a public high school teaching English, so when they called my name over the intercom in the middle of class hours I knew that something was wrong.


I walked into the office and saw Gertrude the school secretary, a small unassuming woman, in her usual spot. She looked pale; her face was grim and serious. She gave me a look of helplessness before saying, "They're ready to see you in the Principal's office, Joel." I asked her what was going on; there was a knot in my stomach that grew by the second. She simply shook her head. What I found really strange was the way she looked at me. I couldn't read it at the time, but later I realized it was a mix of sympathy and disgust.


The dread that had sunk its way deep into my guts continued to constrict as I entered the office, it almost caused vomit to crawl up my throat when I saw Principal Salmay, Vice Principal Steiner, Superintendent Cleaver and two other people I didn't recognize looking back at me. All the faces that were familiar mirrored the expression that Gertrude had on her face, tired and sallow. The strangers were contrastingly stoic and aloof.


They told me to sit down, I quickly obliged. They introduced the two newcomers as Detectives Monrose and Gerby. Monrose was a large man in his late forties, with hands that seemed too big even for his statuesque frame. Gerby was an average man, who donned an outdated brown suit. None of the people in the room would make more eye contact with me than they had to.


Jill Salmay looked straight into my eyes, piercing them with her hawkish glare, "Emily Carson is dead Joel."


My world died along with Emily at that moment. My stomach churned and I barely made it to the trashcan before expelling the contents. I didn't say a word after cleaning myself up. I sat in shock, not able to keep a grip on what they were saying until Carl Steiner spoke up in his gravely voice, "What were you thinking? Sleeping with a student Joel? She killed herself last night."


I sat even though my first instinct told me to run out of the room, my face was emotionless other than the constant glaze over my eyes, "We were in love."


Kelly Cleaver piped in, her tone shrill and unforgiving, "She was 16, you are 28...that is ludicrous. You should have known better."


I simply repeated myself, "We were in love."


I was escorted away from school by the detectives, while in the car I finally got an explanation of what had happened. Emily kept a diary and our notes in a small purple box underneath her bed, she had written every detail of her love for me, our plans to marry, and also of more...intimate things. Her father had found it and the accusations began flying. He threatened to send her away, to get me put in prison for rape. She pleaded with him, told him she couldn't live without me. He then suggested that I had brain-washed her. When she couldn't take anymore she went to her room, barricading herself inside. Her room was on the eleventh floor. She wrote a note to me, and flung herself out the window.


The note wouldn't be revealed until I went to trial two months later:


Joel,
These last months with you have been wonderful, so wonderful in fact that I can't deal with what my father is about to put us through. Social norms dictate that we cannot be together because of our age, and I can't stand what it will do to you. Know that I never intended for you to get hurt.
I am sorry my love,
Emily


I did my time all the while thinking of what I could have done differently. I would sometimes lay awake in my cell and think about her death. Emily flying for a few brief seconds like the angel she was, but hanging in the sky in slow motion, her nightgown flowing like gossamer around her. She falls so lightly onto the cold hard cement that it is hard to imagine that it caused her death. She lays flat against the asphalt a small trickle of blood escaping from her open mouth. One brilliant emerald eye sheds a bloodstained tear into the pool of crimson that slowly emerges from the spot where the ground connected to her head. I sometimes imagine that the puddle forms a heart.


When I finally got out I didn't know where to start. I no longer had a career, my family didn't want anything to do with me, and what friends I had left would come over occasionally, but only out of obligation.


So here I am, with nothing left but to write our story. The only comfort I have left is from writing about it. I linger on the good times, the secret looks of knowing during class, holding hands in my Volvo while driving out of town, where we could be together safely, lying in bed with her for hours talking about everything after we had made love. I commit to paper every detail. I don't want to forget a thing. I sometimes wish I could live with Emily in the pages, where time had stopped.


My new home is in a lower middle class area, the best place that would allow me to live there. I had a record as a sex offender, and the scandal had become big news in the city I lived in. Many of the suburban neighborhoods I was used to wouldn't allow me to reside there. I would move away, but I wanted to remain near Emily.


Sometimes I will sneak to her grave at night to take her orchids and white chocolate. Emily reminded me of white chocolate, sweet and pure. She was the one piece of perfection I had found in my life. Others may not understand, but that doesn't matter, it was love.