This is how you deal.
Sucking on the leftover olive from an empty martini glass. This is your second, your third, you have lost count.
Alcohol is used as a recreation, not as a coping mechanism. You do what you like, and you like drinking martinis. You have no one to tell you how to live your life, and you like it that way. Then why does his disappointment give you inconsolable guilt?
He loves you, he said so – but not in the way you want. That love will never be set aside for you. Not from him. And so it shouldn't matter, and it doesn't, because with each sip you feel more numb. You feel real, you feel less pathetic.
But this isn't because of him.
The way his two faces blur back in forth into one, hiding behind two pairs of pitch black shades – you know he's watching you. You lie down, but his eyes are on you. There is no doubt about it, his gaze can be felt through countless barriers.
And he uses his nickname for you, the one that sounds crisp in your ears – it sounds so much better in person. Hearing his voice causes a sort of sensory overload, and he is close, but so, so distant.
"Rox."
You feel like you're floating, the sky above you twisting and turning and forming and exploding. You have so many things you want to tell him, so many things you would much rather keep to yourself. But you know what you cannot say, so you whisper it instead.
"Love me."
And for a moment you see his face above your head, staring down, and you wonder if this is what it feels like to see God's face in the clouds. But he is so far above, and you are so down below. The perspective, hilarious, makes you giggle so much, you snort.
In one moment, his eyebrows crease, watching you, and there's that frown again.
And you feel sick.
"I do." He isn't speaking, but you hear the words in your head. "But not in that way."
The alcohol does not erase your shame – your tolerance is much too high. You watch your reflection in those ridiculous sunglasses and you see a reflection of a girl who just gave up. Just this once.
Just this one time.
"Don't be mad," you say, slowly, working to pronounce every syllable.
This time, his mouth moves when he talks, and you know it's him.
"I'm not."
And he sits next to you on the hard ground, touching your shoulder like a friend.
And you roll in his direction until you're touching. He doesn't move away. He lets you fall asleep against him because he loves you.
But not in that way.