She makes it look easy. The way she flits around the room, pausing at every small cluster of people to say hi, to say thank you, small touches to make it seem more intimate than all of this really is. She makes it look genuine when it couldn't be more of a fucking facade than it already is.
You stand in the corner with a drink. Alone. Fed up. Tired. Bored.
It's bullshit. You know it is, she knows it is.
Why she felt the need to throw an anniversary party when everything is crumbling between the two of you, you'll never quite get it.
It's not like it matters anyway. Five years is nothing when it really comes down to it.
The divorce papers will be printed and sealed and delivered to the house you used to share tomorrow. You'll sign them first but only because your soon-to-be ex-wife has to promote a new album and will be taking a red eye flight tomorrow morning.
Ashley will sign them in three days. She will sign them on a Tuesday and you'll officially be divorced within the next six months. Unless something happens. But nothing is likely to happen. Nothing and everything have happened in the the last year anyway, so what's six months in the grand tragedy of your relationship?
She eventually makes her way back to you, stopping a few inches too far to be intimate but just far away so that nothing looks out of the ordinary to all of these people. It's the eyes that throw it all off and maybe it's because she's had too many drinks too, but there's so much pain that it's palpable.
"Are we making the right decision?" The singer mumbles and takes a swig of, what you assume, is a Hennessy and coke.
What is there to say to that? You could tell her yes. You could tell her no. You could tell her that you have no idea other than it physically hurts when you look at her. And not in the way you used to hurt, more like an ache and yearning for something that's gone forever. All of those foreign hands have touched the body that used to only respond to you have tainted everything. Lips that weren't yours. Her eyes make you feel hopeless, though. They always have in every connotation of the word.
A shrug is the only response you can give. "Are we leaving together? Or can I claim I'm not feeling well and head out?"
"Go ahead and head out. I'll wrap up here," she sighs. The entire evening has been draining for the two of you. "I'm heading to the airport right after this anyway."
"Have a safe flight," you tell her while pulling her into a cordial hug. You hate the way her head immediately rests in the hollow of your neck and shoulder. When you go to kiss her on the cheek, you swear she tilts her head at the last minute so your lips craze the corner of hers.
You blame it on the alcohol. But maybe there's something else.
For now, though, you'll tuck those feelings away. You'll remind yourself that Ashley is the one who wanted all of this.
You'll ignore those lines she sang a few months after she met you...
I hope hopeless changes over time...
