last arguments

Kristen and I had an argument the day before she died.

It was stupid. Pointless. Over a couch. I cared nothing for the couch.

The argument isn't what is bothering me. I cherish the argument, because I hold any memory of her dear. I am frightened, to death, that I can't remember the details of an argument that meant nothing.

Things that meant everything included arguments along with laughs and regular, boring, day-to-day conversations.

The last time that we were together we had bumped into each other on campus. My car was further away, so we took hers. Neither of us had had lunch, so of course, Cafe Sabore was in order. While getting in the car, I noticed the Suzanne Somer's diet book. She told me about her new diet the entire drive to the restaurant. She was excited about it, explained the ease of it. We got to the restaurant, and by this time I understood that she couldn't eat tortilla chips at this phase of the diet, so I offered to tell the waitress to not bring the chips and salsa. She refused such an absurd offer-- why should I miss out on the delicious chips and salsa? Kristen, above all others, understood the importance of this treat. Once while we were together, she ordered a separate take-home order of chips and salsa. -- I ate the chips. Right in front of her. She didn't mind, too much. She drank her water, I my iced tea. Then we shared a perfect taco salad.