i could've loved him if i'd had the courage. if i could've picked up my heels and walked the twenty feet toward him, i might have. i didn't. i stood there staring, watching his hands flit to and fro, talking with his wrists in the italian way my father always did.

i flip my hair, take two steps left.

i could've loved him if i'd really tried. but where would that have gotten me? a few bouquets of flowers and a couple free dinners, big fucking deal. i've done the whole "perfect relationship" thing before and i'm not cut out for things like that. it didn't work out and i've got a scar on my neck to prove it.

i don't need to be in love to hear that i'm beautiful. usually i hear it when guys just want to fuck me but i don't need cheap compliments to slip into bed.

but the one i might have loved, he was so glorious with his opaque skin and bird hands. he looked up at me with pacific eyes and i spun on my heels. turned away, my back toward him because i knew he thought i was beautiful just like the rest of them did. i didn't need to hear it again.

i'm a fucking showhorse with a garland around my neck. i'm all white petals and silk skin. hazel eyes that will haunt you if you look at me too long. i'm all painted up and pretty with bruised ribs under my coat and i don't need love to save me.

and these heels turn away, back arched.

"excuse me, miss?" the beautiful one says.

my love, you're making a mistake. you don't need an excuse.

my eyebrows raise and he is in front of me, taller than he seemed. my lips pull across my face and i look at him expectantly. "miss, i just wanted to tell you that you're beautiful, and may i ask your name?"

i want to tell him everything and be held in arms that aren't by ring another's; i want to scream at him "i don't know you, but i could love you and you're breaking my heart by asking my name."

but instead, i whisper, "i'm sorry, but i'm meeting someone."