The sun shone through the bus window, beating down atop his head. He imagined his curls withering from the heat and falling to the floor, like dead leaves from a plant, mingling with the dust and wrappers and wads of gum.
He felt the pinprick of eyes on the side of his neck and turned. There she was, sitting cross-legged in the seat across the aisle. He thought for a moment that she might look away, but she held his gaze with a smile, braces poking out between her lips.
“Sorry,” she said. Her voice was soft and sweet. It reminded him of the videos his mother would put on to fall asleep. “This is going to sound so weird. You look so much like this guy I used to date.”
He shrugged. “Yeah?”
She leaned forward, bracing herself on the heel of her palm, blond hair cascading over her shoulder. “Yeah,” she repeated back, her tone now conspiratorial. “You have the same hair and eyes. Big and brown and beautiful. Like a baby cow’s. And a similar nose.”
He swallowed. He wasn’t used to girls describing anything involving him as beautiful. “Did you switch buses, or are you new?”
She laughed. It struck him an an unpleasant laugh. Why, then, did he want to hear it again? “My name’s Lily,” she said. “I’m guessing your name isn’t also Dominic. That’d be insane.”
“It’s Mark,” he said. He almost wished his name was Dominic, wished that he could provide the sort of coincidence that seems like proof of magic. He suddenly felt brave, spurred by her overfamiliarity, and scooted closer to the window. “Want to move?”
She did.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
They had been dating eight months, which feels like a lifetime at eighteen. They had survived the whole carousel of senior year events, hand-in-hand: spring break trip, finals, prom, graduation. She was set to start community college, he was going to state only an hour away. Mark had been expecting this summer to feel cramped, rushed, final. Instead, it stretched in all directions. Infinite breathing room.
He started to spend all his afternoons in Lily’s backyard, lazily lounging on her trampoline, shoving his tongue in her mouth (now free of braces) and his hand in her shirt (usually free of a bra).
He couldn’t help but ask about Dominic, still. She never seemed to tire of it, exactly, but she never relented either. “Nooooo,” she’d giggle-groan. “Come on. I deleted all the pictures. He’s not on social media. You’ll just have to believe me.”
He’d always drop it, but couldn’t stop himself from bringing it up again at different times. The curiosity gnawed at him, for one. He also enjoyed the way it’d make her squirm.
He never dared ask all of the questions building up in his head, though. Why did you and Dominic break up? Would you even have talked to me if I didn’t look like him? Am I just a replacement? He tried to tell himself that none of it mattered. She had a type. So what. She looked nothing like the women in the porn he jerked off to, and this caused him some guilt, but he was also smart enough to know that was all fantasy. Lily was real, and she liked him, and he thought he might even love her. That’s better than porn. That’s more important than looking like an ex-boyfriend.
He propped himself up on his elbow and looked down at her little grinning face. His chest hurt. She reached out her arms, slowly wrapping them around his neck, and yanked him down.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
She was starting to bring up Dominic now. Little comments here and there. You laugh like him, you know. The way you eat reminds me of him. Wow, I’m only just now noticing that you guys do the same nose-scrunch-thing.
Mark could only ever shrug in response, murmur a “huhthat’swild” as his mind raced. He felt like he missed the chance to say something after the first few instances, and to complain now would only make him look like a jerk. She’s just pointing out similarities, he thought. Not saying he was better or something. Not saying I am, either.
One day, they were out at a fro-yo place. She was stirring her vanilla-and-chocolate swirl into a finely mixed goop. She never finished her food. Mark’s father had once told him that the best girls never finished a full meal, but Mark didn’t agree. It made him feel like he was wasting money.
“At least tell me his last name,” Mark blurted, apropos of nothing.
“Who?”
“Dominic,” Mark said. The name felt familiar in his mouth, now, and he hated it.
“Why do you want to know? Stalkerrr,” Lily dragged out the word, reaching over to tease his shoulder with her pinkie finger.
“Please, Lil. Just tell me.”
“God, fine. Dominic Henry Peterson,” she relayed the name mockingly, taking her time on first, middle, and last. Where she intended mockery, though, Mark heard intimacy, and his annoyance grew. “Threw in the middle name. Free of charge. Can we please talk about something else, baby?”
That night, Mark fervently googled. Dominic Henry Peterson high school Arizona. He looked through the images: Facebook profile pictures of men in their 30s, blurry shots of obituaries. Then he came across an article from seven years ago. Fifth grader places first in Our Lady of Mount Carmel’s spelling bee. A photo of a wiry boy with red hair and glasses, holding up a cheap plastic trophy. Dominic Peterson, winner.
He looked nothing at all like Mark. Not a drop. But something told him this wasn’t another dead end.
He texted Lily. Hey. You’re from Tempe originally, right, baby?
She responded, nearly instantly. Yes!
Dominic was what, ten or eleven in the picture? People change a lot from then to seventeen. Mark brought his phone close to his face. The picture wasn’t the best quality. The kid’s glasses were smudged. Still, the eyes behind them were an unmistakable green.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lily lingered three steps behind and stared, her eyes widening, her arms crossed against her chest protectively.
Mark glanced over and stopped, startled. “Lily? What’s wrong?”
Her voice was nearly a whisper. “Sorry. It’s just. You look more and more like him.”
He had done his best to put Dominic out of his mind completely., but now he couldn’t stop the anger that was rising in his chest, pushing at his throat. “Jesus Christ, Lily. Why the fuck do you talk about your ex all the time?” He kicked a piece of gravel, and it only made him angrier. No release.
It was like she hadn’t heard a word he said. “How are you doing that?” She sounded scared. “You’re…how are you changing?”
“What are you talking about?”
Lily suddenly darted forward and grabbed his face. “Dominic,” she shouted. It was the loudest Mark had ever heard her. “Can you hear me? I think it’s ending.”
Mark pushed her so hard she fell on her back. She started wailing, cradling her elbow as blood dripped from the gash. He felt terrible. He wanted to help her. To hold her. Instead, he ran.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He couldn’t stop himself from searching again. Dominic Henry Peterson Tempe Arizona. He clicked again on the article, and the picture refused to load. He refreshed the page. Once, twice, three times. There he was.
The green-eyed ginger was gone. Instead, a boy with dark, curly hair and big, brown eyes gave the camera a sheepish grin, clutching the little trophy like he couldn’t believe he had won.
Em Kirby is a 23-year-old writer from Mobile, Alabama. She’s been crafting stories since she had to ask her mom how to spell every single word. These days, Em mostly focuses on writing music. She releases original indie folk under the solo project Uncle Emmington. You can find her on twitter at @unc_emm or instagram at @em_only_a_fool.
Dodo Eraser 
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