(Just kidding we aren't finished) Chapter 15 He’s Too Late for the Buoyant Nautical Transport Medium

“How you know when someone’s not in love with you anymore? They stop laughing at your jokes.”

There she was, red dress with black polka dots. She was beautiful, light brown hair curled, smiling as she spoke to a group of people, who’s faces had ceased to matter. This was uncharacteristic of her, she must have had a little bit to drink. I could guess what she was talking about, a book, something wonderful she had recently read; maybe on a new scientific discovery. Her golden eyes were lit up, soul pouring out of them. Her hands building imaginary sky scrapers, what a picture she was painting for the faceless people. Innocent and passionate as always, a paradox of seriousness and humour. So happy and sad.  I took a deep breath and approached the group. I could still only see her. Like a light. 

“You know its bad manners to explain the whole thing, you should let them think for themselves, at least a little.” I said it easily, smiling. 

Her back stiffened halfway through the word manners. 

 She spun on her heel to look at me. An infinitesimal flash crossed her face she lifted her chin, beautiful sad eyes looking up at me. Her arms were crossed, otherwise her posture was perfectly casual. 

Every time she’d ever told me she hated me I’d always known there was hope. There is a blistering passion accompanying both love and hate; sometimes, leaving them ambiguous: interchangeable. But this time all she said was:

“How’s the weather?” Her jaw flexed, as she absentmindedly clenched her teeth, eyes wandering. And that’s when I knew she didn’t love me. Because she was indifferent -it was clear in the cool tone of her voice and the relaxed set of her lips- and there was nothing worse than that. It had come to small talk. Her light brown ringlets danced in the light  She stood  arms crossed, facing me, but away -the space between us held no warm nostalgia, her weight shifted back and forth from foot to foot until she crossed her legs and looked up biting her pretty carnation pink coloured lower lip. I longed for the playful glare or the confused and offered expression I had before induced. But she looked at me now with a kind of not bitter, but resigned indifference that only be accrued through time.  She turned, not waiting for an answer, because we both knew what she’d meant. It was a desperate kind of a turn, very slow, where your upper body moves before your feet, as if she wanted me to say something.  Just like after the first time I’d kissed her. Except this time she didn't run. She just walked.