Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 8

encounters, long since dissatisfying, now made me nauseous and left me emptier than I was before they were even initiated. My need for Paul manifested itself in physical symptoms, every cell in my body screaming for him until I couldn't take it anymore: I had to come back, I had to find him and I had to find out if there was any hope for me, for us.
    And now I know. There isn't.
    ****
    Only an hour , I promise myself for what must be the hundredth time. Still I hesitate at the bar door before, with an impatient stamp of my foot, I push it open and force myself to walk in.
    The party is in a function room at the back and already in full swing. I glance around the sea of faces, surprised to realise that Paul's so popular. One table is clearly filled with Curt's work colleagues, all sat with military bearings in the corner, more subdued than the rest. I recognise some faces, friends and acquaintances from the old days and others I've met over the last six months. Arms wave at me and beckon me to various seats.
    The happy couple are laughing and joking at a table near the head of the room, Curt's arm slung possessively around the back of Paul's chair. His gaze slides across to me and his lip curls in a sneer, something smug and unpleasant lurking behind his piercing eyes. God, I hate that man.
    I force myself to settle on a table with a group of acquaintances and join in the rowdy conversation, limiting my bitter glances over the happy couple to once every five seconds. If I could just sit and stare, I would. Curt's eyes frequently meet mine, something cruel hardening their edges, or maybe that's just my own clouded interpretation. Paul loves that man , I remind myself. I have to trust my best friend's judgement over my own, I have to believe that there's something redeeming about him that I simply don't see.
    Don't want to see.
    I force my attention back to my fellow partygoers, picking up the threads of conversations around me and making a concerted effort to join in. No need to make a show of myself. It'd only embarrass Paul. Paul, who hasn't so much as glanced in my direction. I doubt he even knows I'm here.
    At some unspecified point after my third or fourth drink the music stops and Curt steps onto a small dais at the end of the room, tapping on a microphone. Catcalls and whistles ring out as he waits for everyone's attention. A speech. Fucking brilliant.
    Friendly, eager hands push Paul to his feet and over to his lover. He glances nervously around the room; eyes Curt sidelong, a warning quirking his brow; and looks back at his table again. His gaze slides over me and he freezes, his shoulders stiffening infinitesimally. His nostrils flare. Shit, he had no idea that I would be here. What the fuck…? Our eyes snap to Curt, who shoots another dark look in my direction before he turns his attention fully to his partner and begins speaking.
    Cold lead sinks down my chest and settles in my gut as the room falls silent. Breaths hitch as Curt tells Paul how much he loves him and everything that the last year has meant. As he drops to one knee the bottom falls out of my world. Choking on the too-thick air I stumble to my feet, hands blindly groping the table for support. Glass smashes, the people around me react angrily but I don't care. I can't stay, I can't watch this, see Paul's face light up, witness Curt place that ring on his finger.
    No fucking way.
    I don't care what kind of a scene I make as I flee the room. My only thought is to escape, to run as far and as fast as I can and never look back. "Bastard," I spit as I crash into the street. Curt set me up. The lousy, rotten, cruel, cruel bastard.
    A couple stepping into the bar give me a wide berth as they pass. Rain falls in heavy sheets, quickly soaking me to the skin as I run down the street, mercifully masking my tears from the few people who hurry along, collars drawn up and heads bowed against the elements. I run blindly until I can't run anymore and then I collapse in a darkened shop doorway, bury my head in my hands and howl.
    God knows what I must look like, a grown man, drenched to the bone, curled in a tight knot on the dirty pavement. I don't care, can't care, the only thing I know is that I'm hurting more than I ever thought possible and I want to die. How can I live knowing that Paul will never be mine, that my last hope has gone? Why would I want that life? I struggle to catch my breath, gulping for air, the sound rasping against my bruised ribs as