They say we have three loves in this life. Our first love, our great love, and out last love. May we all be so lucky. Dinner was done; tonight's menu was brown rice with slightly fried tofu, light on the oil please. They washed the dishes together, the rice pot worn through the Teflon, the plates that lost their shine a generation ago, the frayed dishtowel. She washed, he dried. She liked the feeling of warm water on her hands, the slippery feeling of the soap, and especially making something clean that once was dirty. Sometimes she ran the water hot, too hot, but just for a second, just to feel what it could be. He liked watching her, taking each dish as she finished scrubbing them, and putting them away. He didn't care about the worn cabinets, the stained linoleum, or the thin walls. He was happy, young, and in love. They went for a post dinner walk and talked. He shared his dreams and talked too much about work. She shared memories of her childhood, riding to the beach in her father's pink Cadillac. She was careful not to talk too much about her past, but just enough to be genuine. She loved him very much. This scared the shit out of her and it took all her will not to leave him. After the walk, the showered, made love, and showed again. They settled in front of the TV but before he could turn it on she asked him to wait, she wanted to draw his picture. She disappeared into the bedroom and returned with a single piece of sketching paper. She sketched his face in pencil. Filling in the roman nose, the parted hair, the long face. The drawing came to her fast and good. She showed it to him; he was marginally impressed and kissed her for it. She pulled back a bit too quickly and told him it was just something she had to do. She returned to the bedroom, grabbed the folder from which she took the paper, and went to the bathroom. She sat on the toilet, pulled on the picture of the other. She recognized the similarities between the two, even though one was a strapping 6'2" red head and the other a wirely 5'8" brown hair. It was all in their faces, or at least the way she saw their faces. A single tear fell from her left eye, she wiped it, leaving a slight smudge on the paper. Then a single tear on the right eye, and another smudge. She put the drawings away, flushed, and that was that. Many years later the brown hair found the picture of the red hair and he understood. He understood that: We have three loves in this life. Our first love, our great love, and out last love. May we all be so lucky