Glaring from the end of the aisle, eyes made into iron, mouth drawn tight in anger, hate. So intent upon showing him up, demonstrating her displeasure, condemning him, with eyes locked. She was completely full of shit. Though she sought to play the role she was assigned, the one eternally wronged, the pinnacle of virtue casting down the pariah, yet, through the air of ice, she could not stop from unconsciously, coyly, playing with her hair, the way women did when they spotted their love. She needed him to want her. She had meant to wordlessly tell him he was nothing, but she silently said he was everything. She’d always wanted him, and her disdain had always been feigned for applause. She was nothing but an actress in denial, denying herself her own desires and substituting those she did not want, childish men she did not want. She had to play her part or be denied her worthless star, but her fingers, twirling in her locks grown long, gave her away, said what she could not say. But it didn’t give her any courage, and was a slip she would deny. It did not release her from her cage, and she ran as always.