I wrote you deadlines in my head. Saturday was one. My birthday is another.



On the night bus home, with eye makeup running down my cheeks and lip gloss left behind on empty glasses, on the night bus home, in pearl earrings and tight jeans. I can't compete with legs like that, with a tan and hair like that.



At the first club J is quiet and she doesn't smile at all. For a bit this is how I want my night to be. Just my friends and me and the music and the overpriced drinks and you not being here. I don't have to pretend to be something I'm not when you're not here. And the thing is, this pretending, it's just a last minute attempt to get your attention.



Then I think two pieces of time collide because I'm left with a lump in my throat that won't go away. I turn, I can see through the passage and into the bar and just before you lean over her, you look up and you don't see me but I'm right there. (with you, I'm always right there), and it could be six months ago. I'm getting my coat and I look up in time to see you close the door behind you both. I'm the last thing you don't see.



I'm sorry. I'm giving up on you.



And I need some ice cream and some chocolate and a place to hide and a getaway car.