She fucking hates me.
My part time friend part time lover would rather me jump out this train window than hear me apologise again.
I can't help but notice the eyelash on her cheek. But do I reach out and move it? No way. She'd bite my fucking hand off. Insults are the only thing that leave her mouth now, no more "I love you"s or kisses. Only vicious sarcasm. She said she "loves me, the real thing", but I really don't feel the same. She was only a good way to pass the time on a Tuesday night. I've been a cunt, really. That's obvious. But she was a good fuck.
I turn around to avoid the metaphorical daggers flying my way. But I can still see her reflection staring in the window; cursing at me through some sort of mumbo jumbo spiritual telepathy. What does she want from me? Does she want me to heave on the floor as I pour my heart out, clinging to her knees through sobs? This isn't a fucking romance. And I'm really not feeling it.
The yellow 'Chanel' shirt wrapped around me makes me look like a Dyke. I like the shirt, but it's just too Lebanese, lesbihonest. Maybe that's where she got the idea from that I'd be interested? She thought we could date because we're the only queers in the group? That would make sense actually, seen as I haven't acted in any particularly flirty way towards her. Or maybe she did actually like me? It sounds weird now, as she's praying for a freak accident to get me, But she was quite lovely a few weeks ago.
The train slowed as we reached the next platform. Two superbly bearded men hoisted themselves through the carriage dividers and onto ours, possibly to escape ticket inspectors. We should be running too, we didn't have tickets either. Stratford Train station was too stressful for our only just sober bodies. After 3 nights of drugs, alcohol and festival intimacies, we were on the come down. We were exhausted.
The men sat in front of us. Both extremely handsome. They looked as though they had just gotten back from an Abercrombie and Fitch model shoot. Both sitting with legs crossed one over the other, they spoke amongst themselves. I couldn't hear the conversation over the train starting up again, but it looked easy. The words flowed and they seemed comfortable. I would be too, if it weren't for Amy being loose without a muzzle. She was still staring.
The drugs must have messed with her memory, she keeps getting my name wrong. How on earth did she get from Alaska to 'Asshole'? Obviously, I'm joking, but she sure isn't. She said I "should have taken more of those pills, about 26 would have done the trick", she doesn't want me around anymore.
This is going to be a long journey.
