Hazy Days

"So how'd you get involved with him, anyway?" Oliver kept his voice soft, but his eyes flicked to the building besides us.

I sighed and ashed my cigarette over the hood of his car we were currently lying on. After Joel had fallen asleep, I desperately needed air and, all right, maybe a friend to talk to. "I met him when I was nineteen and a naive college student. I worked the graveyard shift at the diner- we were open twenty four-seven- and he'd come in sometimes, really early in the morning." I sighed again, remembering. He'd always get a burger and fries, which I found so weird at five in the morning. Then he'd comment on whatever textbook I was taking notes from and give me that same puppy dog pout when he'd tell me that when I was a big shot doctor, he'd have no reason to keep going back. And God, he was so... alive, back then. He didn't look like a drugged up zombie all the time. And he was so sweet, so sincere. I blink a few times and snap myself back to the present. "I guess he kinda swept me off my feet; he was older and good looking and mysterious." I swallow the lump in my throat. "And that's it. That's the story, really."

He had been quiet the whole time, but it was still comforting to feel Oliver's presence. I tossed the butt I'm holding onto the pavement. "That kinda sucks," he eventually says. "You've invested, what, five years into this guy? What a loser. You're slipping away from him and he probably doesn't even notice." I wince. Oliver's too nice to be talking about Joel this way. I don't like it. The next thing he says so softly, I almost think I'm making it up. "Five years. Jesus. I would've asked you to marry me by now."

I feel my face heat up and decide to change the subject. "So when are you leaving, again?"

"Sunday," he replies. Three days. My breath catches in my throat. I didn't realize he was leaving so soon. I hop off his car and he does the same. Concerned lines etch his forehead. "Are you okay, Tor?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," I'm so not fine. I'm confused and mad for feeling this way and mad he's leaving me. It's not like Oliver's mine to lose, anyway, and the thought makes my heart skip a beat. Get a grip, Victoria. "I just, uh, better get back."

He reaches a hand out like he's about to grab my arm, but drops it. "You sure you're okay?"

"Yes, fine. Thanks. Good night, Oliver," I turn and walk up the stairs that lead to my door. He doesn't come after me or call my name or anything and for some reason it really pisses me off.

Goddamn Sunday. I always hated Sundays.