I look up. She is still at the bar, two drinks before her, Cat busy with another customer. Ashley is engaged as well, though, and the girl that has her hand on Ashley’s forearm is beautiful, the kind of beautiful only money and LA can produce; a waterfall of shiny blond hair, big liquid eyes, and a subtle, teasingly inviting smile on her lips.

Ashley is leaning towards her, listening, and the relaxed, carefree pose of a few moments ago is gone. It is a different kind of stance now, a tautness angling her body, a tension that can either mean a lack of comfort or hint at something inviting and reachable, and I wish her back wasn’t turned to me, I wish I could see her face.

There is a casualness to the way the girl interacts with her, her hand off Ashley’s forearm now but close enough on the bar that her fingers are still in contact with Ashley’s arm, a knowing look on her face, eyebrow teasingly raised, head tilted forward in silent invitation, and suddenly I know that she, all California glitter and grace, has already, at some point, probably repeatedly, given Ashley what I still haven’t. What I still can’t.

What is she doing? What are they saying, what is being offered and accepted with those knowing smiles? The girl purses her lips and lowers her head, her hair falling in a cinematographically beautiful way to obscure her face, her hand pulling back to curl around her drink. Even in retreat everything she does is stylistically impeccable. Ashley finally steps back, takes the drinks and turns towards me.

Her brows are drawn, whether in puzzlement or regret, and when she finally does look at me I am jarred by the skein of memories that obscures her eyes. Memories that don’t involve me. Then she smiles, that wide Ashley smile, but I can’t – I look away, shaken by the clangor of insecurities, jealousy prickling my eyelids, shaken to the core.

A glass of Coke slides into my view and she lingers by my side, her fingers sliding across the tabletop, away from the glass she put in front of me, towards the edge of the table, leaving a trail of condensation in their wake, and I fight the urge to reach for them, to stop them, and just when I want to do it, take a hold of her hand, to hold it, make that connection again, she moves away and slides into a chair in front of me. I don’t look up. I am afraid of what I might see in her face, of what I might show her in mine.