I'd been waiting for him, but I tried not to let it show. I wanted to be as cool as icecream but inside my nerves always jangled as though I'd drunk pots of coffee. I worried that he could hear my bones, that they'd give me away.
I wanted to pretend I didn't care whether he came or not. It was like this everytime.
My hands were nervous, I fiddled with the powder compacts and medicine packets on my dressing table, the postcards on my wall. He tasted like whiskey and nicotine; he was always smoking those cigarettes. It slips my mind when I'm with him that I hate smoking. I only remember when I'm left alone, smelling of second-hand smoke and remorse.
The clock is ticking, I always want to make time stop though. I know that in the morning, I'll wake up alone, that he never says goodbye.
It was like this everytime.