There she is, again.
A fleeting glimpse of the ever so familiar blonde hair, short, platinum, curled at the ends.
You see her from across the room, sipping yet another martini glass filled with, inappropriately, vodka with ice.
She always has had odd tastes, or at least an odd sense of what goes with what, or goes in what.
You never did figure out why she likes to drink martini's in shot glasses, and occasionally, shots in martini glasses.
Precious Janet, she'd call you, or, her other nickname, more commonly used, Janey.
God, that hurt, even now.
You can still remember her lightly teasing words, perfumed with the sharp sting of whiskey.
Janey and Jakey sitting in a tree,
K-I-S-S-I-N-G.
First comes love.
Then comes marriage.
Then comes Dirk with the baby carriage!
She had snorted, laughing, high pitched as always.
Roxanne had also been drunk out of her mind then, and every single quip seemed hilarious and witty to her. It hadn't to you, but that hadn't occurred to Roxy, she had been deliriously drunk after all. You had ignored it, and bustled her into a cab that night, the jacket Jake had given you once he had taken one good look at you two to wrap around her sleeveless shoulders wrapped snugly against her warm skin, sitting with her and rambling to distract her from the pain in her head as the alcohol wore off. You had wrapped your arm around her shoulders as she cried on your shoulder, head nestled against the crook of your neck where it met your shoulder, her blonde hair tickling the side of your jaw. The driver had sat stoically and driven, as a good driver should.
You, had you been any other person to her, would have left her alone at home by herself to sleep the effects off. You didn't. You know why?
You know Roxanne.
You know how she's like when she wakes up with a hangover.
She's angry, hurt, upset, and worst of all, delirious with pain.
So you set her down to bed, giving her an aspirin, a cup of water, and a good, firm, maternal cuddle -at least, that's what you tell yourself- before tucking her into bed after she kicked off her high heels. The covers had been pulled up to her chin, and you gave her a good night kiss on the forehead, like her mother had used to do for her before the two had drifted apart, and she'd smiled drowsily and kissed you on the cheek sleepily, black lipstick smearing against your cheek. You had smiled, before closing the door, making sure you were out of earshot before you broke down.
The sobs resounded out noisily in the hallway, but by then, she'd been fast asleep, dead to the world.
You are the worst friend there is, holding romantic intentions for her, when you are supposed to be her steadfast "bee eff effie " who's there no matter what, through all the guys and girls who blur together.
She'd never know that it wasn't Jake you loved, at least, not anymore.
Not if you had a say in it.
She'd never know it was her, the gorgeous blonde who was left to drink herself silly nearly every night all because you just didn't know how to say no and help her, not after she had blown up at you and stayed away for months on end. Because your emotions had gotten in the way of helping her recover from her own, where she drowned them out with loud music, flashing lights, and on top of it all, alcohol.
Bad friend, worst friend.
Bad Jane, worst Jane.