secondhand heartbreak

iii. phantom limb

the darkness does him favors.

from where i sit across the room, i can see him leaning against the back wall, arms crossed protectively over his chest like he already knows what she can do to his heart.

i watch him watch her, study him as his gaze follows her movements around the room. she doesn't approach anyone, counters those who attempt to initiate conversation with her, because she's not here to make meaningless small talk to strangers.

she's here to fill the gaping hole in her rib cage, the hollow space in her chest where a heart is supposed to rest.

like a phantom limb,
it throbs
it throbs
it throbs.

what she does, instead, is dance. and drink, since she doesn't have to worry about fucking that up.

(the truth? it dulls the endless ache of the missing heart she's not sure she ever had.)

i glance back at him, see the moment he decides he's going to talk to her. his world narrows down to just getting to her, and i watch him sidestep sweaty bodies and flailing limbs as he makes his way across the room, makes his way to her.

(his world is narrowed down to her, not for the last time.)

i watch her turn to him when he finally gets her attention, left hand holding that plastic cup, right hand instinctively closing into a fist at her side.

he says something, and her hackles raise in defense. he must see it, because he's quick to placate her.

i'm too far away to hear him and reading lips has never been my strong suit, (ironic, considering i'm the one always watching), but i see her make an effort not to smirk at whatever comment he makes.

(left hand clutches her drink tighter, right hand relaxes and fist loosens.)

they talk.

they drink.

they leave together, eventually, and i know to find somewhere else to crash for the night.