Rose Bridges

Fifty two

Carmen

"I'll see you later babes." Zara kisses my cheek and starts in the other direction.

"Wait when are you coming over today? Six?" I yell to her as she continues down the hallway.

She spins around and walks backwards as she responds. "Seven! Bye sugar-plum-bear." And she's gone with her long silky black hair in the wind.

Sighing with a smile, I turn back around and continue to class.

As I turn the corner, my smile falters and my stomach drops as I see Alexander walking with Amanda under his arm.

She laughs at something he says and my heart twinges.

Except my heart doesn't twinge about the sight of them, that's what my lack of a smile is for. What my heart aches at is the sight of a couple.

Her, under his arm, laughing at something he said.

I would be lying if I said it didn't hurt every time I saw two people holding hands or kissing each other goodbye.

Especially them. It makes me upset. Why should they, these two insensitive self-centered ungrateful little shits, get to be together while Romero is stuck in prison for the next seven months.

I keep my face stoic and posture straight and confident as I walk in that direction to get to class.

Before I can walk past fully, a voice enters my ears.

"Your little drug dealer having fun in jail?" Alexander's taunting voice calls out to me.

A few people look over to us as I turn around to look him dead in the eyes.

Amanda sits like a little mouse underneath his arm.

I stare at him with probably a twitching eye and no readable expression.

"He drop the soap yet? How do you feel knowing some 45 year old pedo is fucking your boyfriend?" His tone is loudly condescending through each word.

Amanda's eyes widen and she looks up to him shocked.

Wordlessly, I don't break eye contact as I take a step closer to him.

I just look at him, wondering how someone could say those words about someone else, someone who never did anything to them.

"I can stand here and curse you out, call you every name in the book like you have to me, throw something at you, anything," I say softly. "But I'm not going to do that." He stares at me with pinched brows as he pulls Amanda closer to him.

"You can call me the weak pathetic not-strong-enough woman that you think I am. And you know what, I don't really care. I don't care because I know myself. I know who I am. And my mind would never physically let me say the things that you manage to." My voice quivers but I don't move or break my eye contact with him.

I'm relatively used to confrontation and dealing with the reality of people's words, but there is something about it that will always be intimate. Intimate for yourself. The idea of trusting yourself to not break down, to keep your feet on the ground, and to just let out what you've wanted to say for so long.