Her

When one of your favorite people is a complete asshole, it’s effortful to hate them. You have to fight the urge to walk over and talk to them like usual. You have to purposefully grimace and not smile. You have to avoid thinking nice things and replace them with pseudo-insults like “Her hair is a mess.” When in reality, her hair flowed in nice waves and looked absolutely perfect.

I had to not notice how gorgeous she looked. After only seeing her one, really awkward time in two and a half weeks, I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. She had a subtle beauty. She wasn’t all tits and ass with promiscuity in between. She looked… interesting. Like a seemingly plain painting that, when you look close enough, you notice the brush strokes and patterns that make it alluring.

I had to not notice the new stud gleaming from the side of her nose. It made her look that much more badass. In fact, it made me forget a little bit of what happened that night in the field…

I had to not notice the way her boots clicked on the floor as she walked away from me.

I had to not notice the fact that she was walking away from me.

After all, I hated her. I wasn’t supposed to care about any of this. But, good Jesus, did I want to walk over there and talk to her.

Did she see me? Did she want to talk to me? Did she care?

I downed another shot and conveniently lost Renolds in the sea of music. Paddling by people and deeper into the beat, I found myself directly in Astrid’s path. Her eyes fell on me and there was no mistaking that we both knew the other was there.

Would she run again? Would she talk to me? Would she expect me to make a move?

She turned around and downed the remainder of the amber liquid in her glass. After a few shots, I was confident! Well, I was tipsy and that often poses as confidence. So, I walked forward and sat myself right across from her.

“You’re not running away again,” I said. At the time I thought I sounded confident. In reality, my words were probably slurred and my voice probably shook.

Astrid sighed and waited for me to continue.

“What happened,” I asked.

She shrugged, “I got a little too tipsy and a little carried away. I lost my filter and I lost my better judgment. It’s better for us to part, Florence. You’re a wonderful person and I have an aversion to wonderful people.”

“Why?”

She didn’t answer.

“I’ll leave you alone if you just answer one more question, please,” that time, I was fully aware of my shaking voice. “Why did you keep running away?”

“Because,” she said with a little smile, “I always make an exit,” she stood up and left me sitting alone with a table and empty glasses.