so...i haven't written anything worthwhile since the beginning of august. and then i wrote this just now.....
so yeah, tell me what you think....
for the record, this is fiction, though you're probably smart enough to figure it out, but yeah.....didn't happen.
"I see your taste in fashion hasn't changed."
What's that old cliche? My heart dropped, my stomach rolled, my knees grew weak, all those ancient emotions so long ago stuffed in a box and shipped to nowhere came crashing through me as quickly as I'd wished I'd forgotten them. Memories and images flashed within my subconscious and I had to fight to stay calm. I was deeply tempted to ignore the dry comment and continue my conversation with Andrew, which had been so rudely interrupted, but given the terrified look on the poor boy's face and how hard my heart was pounding, I don't think either of us could've carried on a decent conversation. I gave a faux smile to the trembling man, who looked like he wanted nothing more than to leave, and inhaled deeply, cleansing myself before being overwhelmed with that imitable scent. Andrew, being a damn good actor, willingly took the hint and hightailed it before things got heavy. With a military about-turn, I snapped around, coming face-to-face with about ten years of my past.
"You're still that little bohemian butch I knew so many years ago." Those lips, so often curled in a sneer, held a charming grin that could stop most dead in their tracks.
I only smiled, my tongue, once sharp and deadly, hanging limp from something akin to shock.
She looked beautiful, as usual. Stunning in a light, airy white gown with a wide green belt that matched her eyes, the virgin-like lace contrasting starkly with both the darkness of the bar and the mahogany gleam of her hair. The entirety of the room seemed to shrink as her presence grew, shining like a beacon while the rest of us mortals only bowed to her glory. Not for the first time, I felt awkward and clumsy, boorish in my painfully stylish, ironic tee and carefully pre-faded jeans.
She always made feel like a fake.
My heart was still pounding loudly in my ears. It amazed me no one else could hear it, nor how fast or shallow I was breathing. I had to say something, anything to keep myself from sinking into those emerald depths, to keep myself afloat. "As I recall, you used to like my sense of fashion." I realized ten seconds too late that the cynicism and coldness had fallen flat, and I'd just sounded wistful.
Not what I'd been aiming for.
Something flashed behind her eyes. Regret? Annoyance? Nostalgia? Whatever it was, it was gone in a moment, and all that was left was patronizing amusement. I felt my ears grow hot and I bit my lip to keep quiet. This had always been a game to her. Whatever we'd had, it'd never been real. Or at least, that's what I told myself when I came home to an empty apartment and half the furniture gone. Just a fling. Just a five-year long fling.
She'd been thinner back then, not that she was, by any means morbidly obese at this point. It'd been a starving artist thin, a rent-or-food thin, I'll-keep-my-integrity-before-I-sell-out thin. With cheekbones sharp as razors and ribs that peeked through the skin. Her clothes had never fit right, the old hand-me-downs lifted from the consignment shops. She'd seemed so small, cradled in my arms, as we huddled together in that shithole of an apartment.
She'd been so much smaller back then.
Now, though her skin glowed with health, her face was still as sharp, all angles and pointed edges. Smiles were still plastered on our faces, though by this point, pleasantry was a triviality.