P

I want to grab P and slap him and shake him. "Do you know how lucky you are that I want you? Do you know how many men would love to be in your shoes?"

I'm feeling childish and selfish and cruel. But mostly lonely.

His eyes were very kind. They looked honest. Not like The Mistake--his had a glint in them that, then, I naively took as charm but am mature enough now to recognize as deception.

When P looked at me, I could tell that he wanted me. Not in the animalistic way that most men do. They softened, slightly. I felt like he wanted to hug me and nothing else. I didn't fantasize him naked. I fantasized holding his hand.

I wanted to know him.

He entertained this whim for a little while, but that was all it turned out to be--a whimsy. A silly girl with a silly crush and he ultimately chose a redhead instead. I think they were friends for a long time.

Best Friend tells me, "You are way hotter than her," and I know it's meant as comfort but she might as well have told me that my nail polish is redder or my ears are more ear-like.

I tilt my head to the side, "She has a bit of a horse-face."

"She does," Best Friend nods.

But she also has him. She is probably funny and kind--not embattled, bitter, oozing resentment and ill will, manifesting depression and insecurity into disgust towards everyone else. She probably paints things that remind her of him, and the mornings when she leaves for work early she leaves him witty notes to wake up to. She's silly and positive. He misses her on the days they can't spend the night together and he devours her on the nights they can. And when he looks at her, that moment right before he brings his lips to meet her's, she is beautiful.