I keep thinking this should be part of something larger. But I kinda think it’s just a very short story.

We were out together, just the three of us, celebrating their engagement. I was happy for them. I was. They were a great couple, perfect together. But I ‘d be lying if I said I wasn’t envious. Not of their engagement. Not exactly. There was no one I wanted to be engaged to. It was their ability to be engaged. To be that sure about someone. To be that sure about anything. I wanted that. I wanted to be sure of something. To think ‘yep, I’ve got that. I’m happy with that. And I will continue to be happy with that for the rest of my life.’ I don’t even know how you do that. I don’t think I know how to be that sure.

We piled into a cab and I ended up in the middle. I don’t know how I ended up in the middle. I didn’t mean to, I just did. We were drunk. And for a while it was fine. But then I felt… aware, somehow, that I was touching my friend’s fiancee, like, a lot of him. Our bodies were pressed against each other because, you know, small cab. And that… that was fine. It was… whatever. It happens. But then I felt his touch change. It became tentative, tender, tainted with longing. And I knew. I knew as sure as instinct. The way that you know you’re hungry. The way that you know you’re in danger. I knew that he wanted me. As much or more than I wanted him.

For a second I saw the affair unfold; the hesitant touches, the trapped and longing glance, the inevitable, breathless, crushing, conclusion. I saw it stretched before me, a bittersweet aria of lust and longing and doomed love. I would stay silent over drinks, devastated by the blue of his eyes. I would have dinner with the two of him and be haunted by the taste of his cock in the back of my throat. I would keep my mouth shut because they were better off together than he with me. My love has an expiration date and theirs… Theirs might actually last. I saw all this sweet, sad, passion laid out before me and all I could think was

“Jesus Christ, not again.”

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