Donuts & Tombstones: Part 2- The Tombstones are Alive
Photos taken the next day . . . Melinda started to cry, which shocked me most of all. In the few months I had known her, she barely emoted. She was a stoic rock, painted with black eyeliner and covered in lace. I dropped my sponge and pulled her into a hug, fully aware that I would get mud caked all over my Bad Carl’s neon tank and mini skirt. Caring, you may say, is my fatal flaw. My wife, Emma, says that my heart is too big for my body. It doesn’t help that I’m an Empath and can literally feel everyone’s emotions. I’m a sponge. I hurt with every tear- feeling them fall as if they are my own. Emma says that’s why I got tangled up with Fred. I just couldn’t walk away from someone who was hurting so badly. I’m lucky to have Emma. She believes my Fred story and she believes in me- despite the fact that I’m a 23-year-old struggling photographer who hawks “deadly good” burgers for a living. “Breathe, Mel. Just breathe,” I said, patting her back. “Since we’re