"I'm cold, James."
James glances over, coolly. "Run around," he says distantly, before returning to his book. He is not truly reading it; he checks the clock every 47 seconds, waiting impatiently for seven o'clock to arrive.
I sit crouched in front of the tired fire. It makes the room smell like smoke and old ash, and the low red light makes me feel demonic and possessed. At 7:00, James will leave, and leave me to struggle with myself until he returns.
"James," I say, in an attempt to gain his attention.
He looks at me irritatedly. "What is it, Silver?"
"What's her name tonight?"
I choose the right question, it seems. The annoyed look slides from his face, and a light pink glow captures his cheeks. He looks more handsome like this, I decide.
"Her name is Sylvia," he says, and there's a slight smile in his voice that I rarely hear.
"What's she like?"
He doesn't seem to realize I'm still in the room with him. "She's beautiful... the way she smiles when she sees something she likes... she's the kindest thing in the world, and so sweet." He throws another absent-minded glance my way. "She's also great at housework and organizing. Stop asking questions, Silver, I'm trying to read."
I let my hand slide back onto the carpet. It had been clutching the necklace that hung delicately around my neck. James turns his eyes back to his book, but I am certain now that he isn't taking in any of the words. I've pulled him out of my world and placed him on a planet where there were only two inhabitants.
He continues to look at the clock, more and more frequently. I haven't moved from my place by the fire; I am also counting down the seconds until he leaves me. His hand is playing idly with the keys to his car - his shiny clean car that he and I washed just this morning. It is a silver car, but he never took me in a ride for it.
The time turns slowly to seven, and James jumps up. "I'm leaving, Silver," he says, almost automatically. "I'll be back later. I'll bring you a present, okay? Be good and don't set the house aflame."
And he is gone. The red coals of the fire seem to leer at me, whispering the truths that even I won't admit.
* * *
"What's happened, James?"
His face is glowing a bright pink. He's busy, bustling around the room, cleaning in random ways that I have never seen him do before. He's smiling, that small, mysterious smile that I so very rarely see.
"It's nothing, Silver, you wouldn't understand," he says importantly.
My fingers touch the necklace around my throat. "James, tell me. I want to know."
He wants to tell me. Maybe not me, particularly, but he wants to tell someone, and I'm the only one here.
He pauses and looks at me. "It's Sylvia," he says. I contemplate how similar our names are.
"What about her?" I ask, careful not to say her name. I'm afraid it will come out as mine.
I think he is going to tell me, but then he closes his mouth and shakes his head. He stokes the fire, and then wanders into the other room, leaving me in solitude again. I wait until it is quiet, and then look at the piece of paper he's left on his desk. Someone's written on it; probably a woman, by the looks of the handwriting. Three words, and then his name. I stare at it for a long time, before slowly feeding it to the fire and watching it burn.
* * *
"Say hello, Silver."
James and his Sylvia are standing before me, expectantly. I've never seen him smile so very grandly. I make them wait while I look them over - James is handsome, dapper, completely and wonderfully happy. Sylvia is, admittedly, ridiculously pretty, in such a simple way that I wonder that she isn't taken already. She's smiling as well, her eyes light up in an incredible way. They seem to be sharing their happiness by the holding of hands, and my insides spike curiously.
"Hello," I say, sullenly.
James doesn't seem to notice my attitude. He has already begun telling Sylvia about his home, and where he bought it, and showing her the pictures on his desk. He skips over mine, but I forcedly assume it's because he's already introduced me, somewhat.
I am suddenly just a shadow, just a wallflower, just like that picture of me on his desk. He and Sylvia are distracted by each other, and they are laughing and talking as if life couldn't be better. They seem to assume that I'm perfectly happy with just watching them be happy.
I stare at the fire, which is burning brightly, warming me against my will.
* * *
"What's that, James?"
James is more and more distracted which each passing day. This time, he looks at me blankly for several seconds without speaking.
"What did you say, Silver?" he asks automatically, as he returns to writing on a piece of paper. I imagine that he is writing those three words and Sylvia's name along with them, and I bite my tongue moodily.
"What's that on your desk?"
He glances at it as if seeing it for the first time, but I know better. I saw him put it there last night when he thought I was sleeping.
"It's a ring," he says, absently. Almost absently. It's as if he's bursting to tell someone, but doesn't want to tell me.
I grow very cold inside. "A ring."
"Yes, Silver, a ring," he says, his tone growing impatient.
"A ring for who?"
"For Sylvia," he says, suddenly quiet. I hear that smile in his voice again.
I swallow. "Why are you giving her a ring?"
James looks at me, seeming amused. "Why do men give women rings, Silver?"
"James!"
"I'm going to ask Sylvia to marry me. Now shush. I'm writing."
I gaze angrily at the fire, willing it to die, to burn cold.
* * *
"You're leaving, James?"
James and Sylvia are sitting side by side on a couch in James's living room. I'm in front of the fire, horrified, as I listen to their plans.
James glances at me, a funny smile on his handsome face. "It's called a honeymoon, Silver."
"How long will you be gone?"
"We don't know yet," he says, and the word "we" stands out painfully obvious.
"We'll be back before you know, dear," coos Sylvia. I know it's supposed to be comforting, I know she's trying to be nice, but I despise the honey-sweet tone of her voice. I glare at her. The ring on her finger sparkles in the light of my fire.
* * *
"Love you, Silver."
I stare up at his face. He looks happy, he looks 18 again. I pretend, for a moment, that he's that happy because he loves me, but the illusion dies away cruelly.
"I love you," I whisper, holding on to those three amazing, beautiful words.
James smiles and pats my head. I think he's going to leave, but instead he sits beside me.
"Are you excited for tomorrow, Silver?"
I close my eyes and try to imagine feeling anything but spite the following day.
"Are you, James?"
"Yes," he says, and I am strangely disappointed that he didn't press the topic of my feelings.
"Why are you excited?"
He looks at me as if he can't comprehend why I would ever ask such a question.
"Because I love her, Silver."
* * *
"I'm cold, James."
He looks radiant; Sylvia is standing by his side, beautiful in her white dress. I have felt nothing but jealousy and betrayal all evening, and yet as I stand before them, thinking about the words, "James and Sylvia, husband and wife," I can't help but feel, just maybe, a little love. Can you feel love?
He looks me full in the face, and I think, unhappily, that he must be feeling so much affection at the moment that he's got a little to spare for me.
"Run around," he says, and I watch as he kisses Sylvia. I watch as he kisses his girl, his wife. I turn and walk away; they don't seem to notice me. More people are coming up to them to hug them, to congradulate them, to squeeze their hands and whisper, "God bless."
I find a piece of paper and a pen. I only know what to say, not what to do. Carefully, I write those three beautiful words, and then add his name to the end. And then I sit in front of the fire, and watch the flames, and wish so hard that my insides hurt.
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