Back when the camera was a younger invention, people would snap photos of their recently deceased loved ones dressed up in their best clothes. These photos would serve as a kind of memento of the relative. There’s really nothing quite like looking into the eyes of a dead young boy, and there is nothing more somber than the look on a mother’s face while cradling him in her arms for the camera. The people are never happy, generally holding a blank expression, and it seems as though this custom was more of a formality than anything else, as if they thought they were doing it more for the dead than for themselves. It is hard to imagine that they would ever pull out the old photo to remind themselves of all the good times they had with their children and brothers and fathers. There must have been perfectly good pictures taken of people while they were alive for that.

I started dating a girl named Melissa a while back. When it started I never thought it would last. I never planned on it lasting long at all. I’d had enough experience with relationships to know that sooner or later I would probably fuck something up good and that, when things fell apart, it would upset me for a short while before I realized that everything was better off anyway and I had gotten off easy.

A few months into things, I knew I was wrong. She was terribly sweet—cooking me dinner, getting along with my friends, and being generally excellent in bed. It wasn’t long before we were lying next to each other and she looked at me with eyes half open, said “I love you,” and kissed me. I said it, too.

“I love you, too, Melissa.” And I kissed her back as my mind railed against itself. I knew it was true, but I didn’t want it to be true. I felt duped by my own subconscious. I had never agreed to this. It just kind of happened. But I knew it was true, and that I cared about her and looked forward to seeing her all the time. I could see us together years from now, and it made me feel kind of sick.

It is a Sunday and I am on the internet looking through pages and pages of those memento pictures, long fallen out of any use other than a mere curiosity for a culture less attached to keeping photos of the body itself.

Generally the eyes are closed, but sometimes they are half open and you can look into them. If the eyes are open a little bit, then this is always the most jarring. If not, then it is the mouth. Sometimes the lips are curled back (if the picture is taken a few days after death) and you can see the teeth exposed and almost threatening violence. Other times the mouth just hangs open, like the person is relaxing after a long and terrible struggle. The eyes of the living people posing with the corpses look off to the side, or directly at the camera, as if they are eagerly waiting for the flash so they can wash their hands of the whole ordeal. It does not take very long to burn these images into my mind. I glance at a nearby newspaper and it’s a few moments before I realize that the woman on the front page is indeed alive and well.

The next step is to switch gears. Instead of old photos, now I’m online and looking for porno. A girl giving head has her eyes half open. A star getting railed has her eyes closed with her lips pulled back, and it’s hard to tell if she’s in pain or ecstasy. Either way, my mind starts playing tricks. As the two opposed sets of images are conflated, as the porn stars begin to look dead, I feel the pain of something inside me trying to push my lunch back up as my esophagus fights against it.

When Melissa calls up, I say, “Yeah, come over. Sounds good. See you later, then.”

Melissa comes over a few hours later and soon my tongue is sliding over hers and I’m biting her lip and I gently grab her by the throat while I do it because it turns her on, she says, but when I open my eyes and see her face—eyes closed and her mouth pops open—I have to excuse myself to the bathroom and eject a brownish bowlful up from my convulsing abdomen before swirling it away down the pipes, resting my sweating face on the cool seat. Clear water gurgles back up along with a few chewed yellow bites of something once organic.

When I come back, I tell her I’m sorry, but I just can’t be in a relationship right now. I really like her but I’d rather end it now before we get attached and somebody really gets hurt. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Yeah.

There’s a little crying, hurt feelings, etc., but when she leaves, I feel much better.