Just One Word

Cigarettes- Stress Relievers

Why am I thinking this? Why? I hit my head against the steering wheel, pounding it now. The horn blares and I jump up. The silent cobblestone streets are lit by street lamps. All was still, and I was here, in a Range Rover, giving myself a bloody headache. My eyes drooped slowly as I turned to my left to see the empty passenger seat. He had gotten out and walked away. I told Harry that I was being forced to propose to Eleanor. He's the 1st person to know. Management has a nasty way of running things. And this is one way. I'm not sure why he yelled at me. It's something he's only done about twice, when I'm being a complete twat. This time, it wasn't me and he still left. Why? Why was it a big deal? If it wasn't for Harry, I wouldn't even be caught up in this. He introduced me to the beautiful college girl. This wasn't my problem. And now I felt bad. Why did I feel bad?! I loved El, why didn't I want marriage? I'm completely my own person. I pressed my lips against the window, looking out at the shops. All the lights were off and the doors were closed. It was early dawn, about 4. I had woken Harry- We shared a flat here in London- and urged him to come with me. I wretched opened the compartment in the passenger side and got out my cigarettes and a match box. I lit a cigarette and just smoked it. I flicked it out the window and lit another. Light white flits began to drift around me. It was snowing. And Harry was walking the steeets, blocks away from our flat. I flicked out the whole cigarette and started the engine, driving down where I knew Harry was. He loved snow. The bridge was about 10 minutes walking distance. I drove there quickly and parked along side it, hopping out, and climbing under into the gutter, where Harry sat. "Hi," he mumbled. "Harry? What's the big deal?" I asked, deciding to be straight toward with the lad. "I just think it's too soon. You really love her?" he asked, green eyes boring into mine. That's when time froze. I stared back, lost in thought, lost in a penetrating green gaze. "I do, Harry. But I don't want marriage. Management just-" "Fuck management!" he hissed, turning away. I crinkled my eyebrows together. "Harry?" "Do you have a cigarette?" "You aren't smoking," I said sternly. He wasn't a smoker. "You do it when you're stressed. As does Liam," he complained. "Liam doesn't do it often. And you aren't doing it over me." Finality was laced in my words. He understood not to prod and so he turned away. I didn't let my eyes leave his face. He was tired. "Let's get home, Harry." "When are you proposing?" "Tomorrow. I'm meeting her at a bakery." Silence. "Yes, home sounds good," he declared. And for the car ride back he was silent. Instead of letting me sleep in his bed as usual, he closed and locked his door. And I didn't slept at all, cold and tangled, not in Harry, but in crisp, unfamiliar sheets.