by Raletha
For windsor blue
It's a cold night, a Friday night in December. The air has a bite I've learned often comes before a snow. I tuck my hands deeper into my jacket pockets and watch Trowa and Quatre walk away from me. They're not holding hands--they said they weren't ready for their relationship to be public knowledge yet--but they are walking close, their arms and shoulders brushing occasionally, their heads turned toward each other. You'd have to be blind not to see it: they're new lovers. Quatre told me this morning about last night, what happened after he drove Trowa home from work.
I should be happy for them. I should be glad I don't have to watch them being unsure and awkward with each other, glad I don't have to put up with the longing looks and plaintive sighing. Glad I don't have to listen to each of them swear me to secrecy and then tell me how much he wants the other.
Thing is, Friday night used to be ours--all three of us. We'd go out after working late to the bar downstairs. Trowa and I would drink beer; Quatre would have a virgin cocktail of some sort, unless it had been a bad day, then he'd go all James Bond and have a martini. On those days I would drink soda or juice and be the designated driver.
We'd listen to the jazz band; I'd dance and Trowa would tease me. Quatre would sometimes become a guest pianist of sorts, and get the bartenders to sing along with him. He has a nice singing voice, but he refuses to sing solo.
Afterward we'd walk a few blocks to a pool hall and play a few games until the smoke got to me. Trowa would always win. Then we'd go home in Quatre's car. If I drove, I'd return Quatre's car to him the next morning and we'd have breakfast together.
It's after work on Friday and they're going home without me. I turn and go into the downstairs bar. I order a beer and listen to the jazz band, but I don't get up to dance. Not even when a pretty girl asks me. I sigh and sip my beer. I should be happy for them.
the end