Dreams are arseholes.

You are sitting here, next to me, watching her walk away. I urge you to follow but you sit and watch her. The bus moves away as she walks on. We move on as she walks on. Her every line is one of sadness. She wanted you to follow, expected you to follow. It seemed like would with all the coy attention and sidelong glances. I can feel her pain and am so angry with you. I feel her pain as she does walking down the street. Her head is held at the angle of determination, she will not look back. I feel her pain and am her walking down the street with a stiffly held neck and a determination not to cry.

You’ve gotten on the bus with her. I know you’re friends, I know it, I will not be jealous. There isn’t much time but you follow her like a lost puppy. You get on the bus and sit with her, all the time talking so intensely. I turn and walk away. I don’t know what else to do. I walk away, we’ve all said goodbye, there’s nothing else to do. I try to walk calmly, casually as though this is my expectation. I walk on and the bus draws away. I wonder if she felt triumphant watching me walk away.

I’m still annoyed as I watch you lope towards her. She is miserable from behind but you don’t seem to notice as you fall into step. It takes some effort to match her sad, tight little steps. She doesn’t acknowledge you and I cannot blame her. The bus moves on and you’re gone from view. I’m walking along, wrapped up in not feeling and now you’re here beside me. You’ve followed but having watched her walk away I am now hurt and angry.