There's something in the punch

I got tired yesterday, and didn't feel like typing my story up and posting it here. So ta da her it is.

            Gowns, lights, and music fill the air. And joys of laughter can be heard everywhere. It is the annual Midsummer Eve ball, and everyone is laughing, and having the time of their life dancing. That is everyone except me. Their laughter sounds false, the cheeriness too cheery. Their minds forced to look at everything around them, and not really allowed to think about the current situation. The war. The Nazis are winning badly; Hitler’s power was quickly slipping away. Everyone was silently freaking out at what will happen if Hitler stopped becoming president. Will it possibly be another depression? France started to take over Germany. The possibilities are endless, and yet I wasn’t thinking about all that. No I was thinking about him, my ex.

            My down to earth, belonging in the mantle, and should never to be seen again, ex. He was smiling cheerfully while talking to some important delegates, his wife by his side acting bored. She caught me staring at them, and started to use her icy glare on me. I roll my eyes, and turn back to the punch bowl, the dark red liquid reminding me of spilled blood. The blood that caused the ending between her husband and me. That jerk ward ex. I feel a pair of unfamiliar wrap around my shoulders and I look up staring into a pair of bright devilish blue eyes. “A-a-are you okay?” he murmurs, concern clear in his voice. I nod and force a smile, so the beating of his heart can slow down, but it doesn’t. And that saddens me, though I force it out of my system, so he wouldn’t know. I wanted him to be happy, even if it was going to end up depressing me.

            “Good,” he says and one of his easygoing smiles is back on his lips. “W-would you want some punch?” and I nod, not realizing at how thirsty I am. I see his arm, grab two cups putting it on the table and pouring the red punch into it. He does it so easily, all with one arm still around my shoulder. Once he finishes, I grab a punch, and so does he. We clink our glasses together carelessly, and we drink. The cold fluid flows down the hollowness of my throat, and it tastes weird, unusual. But it was too late to turn back now. The liquid quickly settles into my stomach, and I can feel little butterflies to form in its place. My heart was beating faster, I felt dizzy and lightheaded, and most of all happy. While there was still one corner of my mind that was clear of it all, it was warning me of something but I couldn’t hear it. I look over at Low, and see the same look in his eyes that’s probably in mine as well; he smiles a happy lopsided smile, and says three words that make my body feel buttery all over.

            “I love you.”

            “I love you too,” I say, and this time I realized what that clear part of my mind was saying to me all along. It’s all fake.