Go get a few drinks

You don't want a fight. Your feet move on their own, carrying you toward the kitchen as if pulled by invisible strings. Each step feels heavier than the last, the polished floorboards cool against your bare feet. The murmur of their voices follows you, a low, intimate hum that feels like a wall being built brick by brick between you and your girlfriend.

"What's his problem?" you hear Valentina's disembodied voice ask, laced with theatrical concern. "He's so sensitive. Don't worry, once we get going, he probably won't even notice I'm here just for you."

Alex's response is too soft to hear, but it's followed by Valentina's throaty laugh. The sound is like glass in your gut.

You wrench open the refrigerator, the cool air a brief shock against your heated skin. You grab a bottle of white wine, the cheap stuff you and Alex usually save for lazy Tuesdays, and three glasses. Your hands tremble slightly as you pour, the pale golden liquid sloshing against the sides. You watch the condensation bead on the glass, each drop a tiny, perfect sphere. You feel utterly, transparently pathetic.

When you return, balancing the glasses carefully, the scene has shifted. They're sitting on the couch now, close enough that their knees are touching. Valentina has her arm draped along the back of the sofa, her fingers lazily toying with a strand of Alex's hair. Alex is leaned in, a small, nervous smile on her face, listening to whatever secrets Valentina is whispering in her ear.

Valentina spots you first. "Ah, the help has arrived," she announces, not bothering to lower her voice. She takes a glass from you, her fingers brushing yours in a way that feels deliberately cold. "Took you long enough."

You hand Alex her glass, and she gives you a quick, apologetic look. "Thanks, babe." The 'babe' sounds hollow.

You stand there, the third glass in your hand, feeling like an utter fool. There's no room for you on the couch. Not physically, not metaphorically.

You ask. "So how are we going to do this?"

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