I'm here. Again. I really, really don't want to be.
Going to random weddings sucks.
But, it was an excuse to dress up and have a bit of alcohol so what self respecting teenager would pass it up?
The ghosts are here though. No, not real ones. My story is too selfish for them to be bothered. The ghosts of him. 11 year old James grinning his impish grin at me, 12 year old James looking at me a year later, each of us trying to figure out and pin point exactly how much we'd changed. Older ghosts still. Him giving me a Barbie he had accidentally won at a fete when we were 8.
I am brought out of my sentimental reverie when another overly affectionate relative whoops upon spotting my mother and swoops in, small talk at the ready.
Fuck this.
I tell my mum I'm going to the loo, and politely excuse my self. As soon as the tent's out of sight though, I break into a run. My little heels don't restrict movement that much and I find the wind in my hair cold but invigorating. I try to snap my self out of this melancholy.
He's gone and you don't give a damn.
I repeat over and over, like it's a mantra. Like it'll do something.
Please God, of you're there, for the last time- I beg you, rid me of him. Rid me of this boy who doesn't care, doesn't remember, this boy who never will. This friend who's gone and left a legion of dreams designed to maim my peace of mind.
God does not respond. He's washed his hands off the matter it seems.
I find a bench along the border of the wedding grounds and plonk myself down. I reach into my purse and pull out a cigarette. It's just the one. No pack, no lighter. I just like the way it makes my fingers look. Purposeful, raw and sexy. I never understood why they'd banned smoking in films when I was little. Then I watched the old classics. Now I'm glad they did. Who could resist Audrey Hepburn smoking? Or anyone for that matter.
But I've been tangled too long again. The crackle of leaves behind me startles me, and I turn.
