oh, anna [-hs]

watermelon sugar / the day i drove the car around the block

a/n hiiiii hehehehee

70.

TWO MONTHS LATER

It seems like every day is the same. They fly past me one by one. I barely blink and the sun rises again.

I manage to catch my breath occasionally. It's in those rare moments of peace that I think of Harry, and my mind mellows into a hazy gray of depression and regret. But only for a moment. As soon as I register the hint of regret, I boil over in anger. He slept with someone else, I want to scream at myself. How can you miss someone who sleeps with someone else. I should hate him. I should be itching to scrub myself of every reminder of him.

But like I said, those moments are rare. For the most part he's nothing but a dwindling shadow in the back of my mind. A dot on the horizon I'm speeding away from. Everytime I look back he's a little smaller. Someday he'll disappear entirely and then maybe finally I'll remember who I was before I met him.

Today I wake up to my alarm. My window is dark, except for a thin line of bright blue along the horizon. I left it open last night, and through the screen I feel the cool humidity of springtime. A dove is crying in a nearby tree. I tap the alarm off and stretch against my pillow.

For a second I breathe and feel that rare peace, and then the cycle begins.

It's going to be a long day. And a stressful day. And I'm going to have to see him.

I've known it would happen for a while. He's hosting. Of course I'm going to see him. The question is will we talk, and for how long.

I slip into sweats and a baseball hat. While the coffee pot laughs in the kitchen, I sit in our living room and eat a bowl of cereal. Leo prances over, rubbing against my calf and purring. He thinks he's getting fed earlier than usual. I pour some breakfast into his bowl, cap my thermos full of coffee and cream, and disappear out the front door.

There have been some rumors about us splitting up. I've seen a few online articles, magazine covers, speculating about the lack of recent photos of us. Unfortunately, the current trajectory of my career means I have to keep tabs on what the press is saying about me. And that means staying updated on that shit.

I take Emma's car to the Dior building in midtown. The parking garage is eerie. I slam my door shut and the sound echoes for what feels like miles. The elevator climbs up the floors and drops me near the top of the tower. I duck into the prep room.

"Miss Bellini! Good morning," I'm pulled to a chair. The person speaking is far too enthusiastic for this early in the morning. I grunt a response and direct my attention to the thermos of coffee in my hand.

Hair is yanked, cheeks are sprayed and brushed, fabric snaps against my skin. Halfway through, Maria, the creative director I'm walking with, pops in to say hi. She plays with the fabric of the dress, fluffing it out from my legs. "Gorgeous," she says to herself, and then nods up at my head. "Thanks for doing that."

I run my hand over the bleached hair. It's not quite a mullet anymore, slightly grown out, but instead of bright pink, it shimmers platinum blonde. I shrug. "Not a problem."

They asked me to bleach it, as the pink would be a little overbearing with the green dress. Which I thought was totally fair. I dyed it on a whim, but during the storyboarding and planning for today, my hair was supposed to be blonde.

The car ride to the MET is filled with polite conversation from Maria. I nod along, staring anxiously out the window. The tinted glass makes the city dark and blurry. Every few seconds I adjust how I'm sitting so I don't crush the gown. Maria absent-mindedly fluffs the body of the dress.