Meeting People prt3
I don’t know the girl from the flat below as much as I thought I did. I once thought she was cute! I liked to listen to her conversations, I liked her laugh and the way she would exclaim in Spanish when she was frustrated with something. I thought maybe I could add her to the list of people that I wished so dearly that I could approach. I thought she was a friend to me because she was a friend to Marc. My Marc. Yet as I looked at her and saw the way she laughed and played with him, I wanted to cry. I felt as though my stomach was ripping itself in pieces and then tying them into knots. My heart was beating in my chest so fast that I could actually hear it, as if I had just run a mile long race. I wanted to hide as her lips gently touched his, and I tried to imagine exactly what he tasted like. Was he sweet? Were his lips soft? She knew, not me. The sight of them together, in a lover’s embrace, was making me sick. I had to leave, but I somehow found myself frozen in place, staring.