Sibyl

"How have you been?" Your face is unreadable, speckled with the shadows cast by the scented candles. I never liked those aromatic scents of french vanilla sugar or summer citrus - too exotic and dizzying like the incense in the nest of a gypsy fortune teller.

A fortune teller. Maybe I am the Sibyl, the prophetress, turning the cards one by one as my fate spells out before me. That instant you crossed my mind, I turned the corner to see you locked in her arms. There was something different about this one; I'd never seen you like this before, and I've watched you from a distance this whole time.

"Fine." That was always the easy answer. No questions asked. Fine was a norm. "Shitty" would have provoked a thousand questions, something I found no patience for anymore. Time to turn the tables. "So who is she?"

The instant I see the corner of your lip turn upwards I know we've reached the point of no return. I don't even hear you say her name, I can already hear it in your voice, a lilt that had been buried underground, brought to the surface by her constant sunshine and showers of affection.

It's so amusing I want to just rip off this mask of compassion and laugh until my lungs die out. Those fairytales and happy endings never talk about the outsiders. The ones who watch the "destined" ones fall in love. You can see it long before the thought ever crosses their minds, and yet there is nothing you can do to stop it. Like a terminal illness, you count the seconds ticking down until the inevitable happens.

"How about you? Are you seeing anyone?"

Stop caring. You don't really want to know, so let's end it now. I laugh.

"He's gorgeous. Huge. Haven't you heard of him? Moby Dick."

I'm only joking and you know it too. This whole farce is a joke, and the punchline has ended with me.