They'd been his favorite possession ever since he saw the movie and adopted, "What the fuck," as his main motto. His name wasn't exact, but Joe was close. And life was easy with, "what the fuck." No room for regrets; just one moment to the next.
But now they were on the floor, haphazard, forgotten, possibly broken.
* * *
He'd met her at a cafe, of all places. A shop for people much cooler, more aware, than him. He'd just wanted coffee - the hangover from the night before just wouldn't go away - so what the fuck. But it had felt fake, made his nausea bubble back up, so he'd gotten his black magic to go.
She'd bumped into his waitress on her way to him, only steps away. The lid wasn't even on yet. He'd cringed, waiting for the stains and scald.
And to be honest, he could have sworn he'd seen her pretty, painted toes, in those metallic, open sandals, get in the way on purpose.
But, no, probably not. No way.
Though, the collision never happened. No burns to speak of. So he'd opened his eyes to find his waitress shaking her head and walking away, and instead she was walking toward him with a devilish grin on her pink lips.
She with her sharp, chin length purple-streaked hair. She with her skinny jeans, looking painted on - he swore to god they had to be. She with her hips, wide and inviting, swinging to a beat she must have been playing in her head.
She had walked toward him, with her finger right in his coffee, wearing the exact same pair of sunglasses he was looking through. He didn't even care about her germs.
* * *
He never noticed that they only went on dates during the day. They both had jobs with off hours, and he had just thought they'd made the time they could. Almost every day together meant he had less time to worry about what was wrong, instead of what was fucking amazing.
She was strong, opinionated, and funny as hell. He got to know every inch of her - the lights couldn't go off during the day - and he kissed as he discovered.
But he'd been stupid, looking back.
The glasses were more a signature for her than they ever were for him, and that was a feat. "They go with fucking everything," she'd say in a cocktail dress, at noon, and her Ray Bans. And he thought she was right.
She did take them off in bed, but her eyes were always closed. Just another quirk.
He should have said something. He should have noticed. He should have thought more than, "What the fuck," and "fuck, I'm lucky."
But he didn't.
And that's why, right now, he was staring into the neon pink irises, lit up and sparkling, of the woman he just proposed to.
Not a single word came to mind, came out, as he held contact with those tickle-me-pinks and heard the crunch as he sat on his forgotten sunglasses.