1semper sola
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forget-me-nots, second thoughts, this dirty town is burning down in my dreams
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Marlene is about to leave - three days before her best friend's wedding - but she has to see Alice. Has to. Marlene has to tell Alice just what she thinks Alice's doing, marrying Frank.
It is not jealousy.
They're young, but not as foolish and naive as they once were. It is not love, and it is most certainly not jealousy. They know what jealousy is now, as guileless as they once were, as jaded and bitter as they are becoming. Jealousy is seeing red, seething green, wishing with all your heart for someone you love - and it's not love, we've covered that - to be yours.
This was never jealousy.
It is not jealousy when Marlene barges into Alice's apartment, a mess of wedding things and pictures. It's not jealousy when Marlene's mood drops when she sees the pictures of Alice and Frank outnumber the picture of Alice, Lily, and herself. It's not jealousy when Alice barely glances at her, too fixated on the wedding plans to care.
It is never jealousy - only loneliness and a sense of loss they've become all too familiar with this endless war.
It is not jealousy when Marlene literally knocks the plans out of Alice's hands. It's not jealousy when she becomes bitter at how harsh and cold her friend's voice has become when saying her name, almost a scolding, as if her tongue was full of metaphorical razors {"Marlene."}.
It is not jealousy when an argument starts and insults are thrown. It's not jealousy when Marlene accuses Alice of only caring about Frank anymore - not caring about her or Lily, not anymore. It's not jealousy when this is more about them and Frank than the Wedding and Lily.
It's not jealousy when Alice tells her she's happy with Frank, that Marlene was the one distancing herself.
It's not jealousy when Marlene breaks down, and she shreds Frank's picture between her fingers as she cries on the floor of Alice's apartment.
It's never jealousy.
It's not jealousy when Marlene's sadness grows at Alice's forlorn look at the picture, before swooping down to hug her like Marlene used to do to Alice when she cried.
It's not jealousy when Marlene thinks 'fuck you Frank' before trying to kiss Alice, just as a memory of those two times, better times, as guileless and naive as they were.
It's never jealousy.
It's not jealousy when Marlene scowls at the engagement ring as Alice shoves her back, after being only a centimeter apart.
It's not jealousy when Marlene starts to burn pictures as soon as she gets home - every one of them, of Alice, of fucking Frank.
It's not jealousy when the only photo left is one of her and Alice, close enough to kiss, left on the floor of the flat.
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rage and love, the story of my life, and screaming 'are we, we are, the waiting'