her favorite word was intravenous:
the invasiveness of it
and the (after)taste
like her name in bathroom stalls. in Tra ven ous
she said, like his wanting her, and he
laughed (that t for tease).

There were carnations at his funeral. Girl Contraband crushed one in her palm, weeping mass of pink and petals, and one of the mourners turned to stare. Some woman that had his eyes, that might have had his smile in a different place and time.

You don't belong here.

"I don't belong anywhere," she said.

But after that she locked herself in the bathroom, their little romance come full circle, and she searched her purse for the one thing that was still his. That old battered marker, its cap marred with his teeth marks, and the ink almost dry but enough for what she wanted. For what he'd want. He didn't care about flower arrangements and Bible verses. He didn't want cheap folding chairs and crying old women.

All he wanted - all he'd ever wanted - was the truth.

All he'd wanted was the one thing she couldn't give.

"I'm sorry," she said, and she meant it, it wouldn't hurt so much if she didn't mean it. "I'm sorry," and she couldn't take it back, any of it, he wasn't the first or the last. He had been the one, but not the only, and they hadn't saved each other after all.

Someone was banging on the door, and somehow she knew it was the woman with the angry eyes, and she didn't even answer, she was fumbling with that marker one more time. The cap skittering across the floor and her shaky hands, tracing hearts along the wall.

"I love you, Jack," she whispered. "I always loved you."

(It was the first time she'd spoken his name.)