Oliver B. Privately

Oliver B. Privately March 16 Today I saw Amanda in a new sweater. It seemed to be the most ordinary color — the color of the sea wave. But he also made his eyes glow. She was also smiling, and her eyes resembled two pieces of the sky. Amanda said that Mark had given her this sweater a long time ago for the third anniversary of their relationship. She was smiling… And there was a lump in my throat. I forced myself to smile, too, and in a cheerful voice, which, frankly, was difficult for me, I said, “It suits you very well.” I wanted to say, “You’re so beautiful in this color that I’m ready to look at it forever.” But he did… I hate Mark for some reason. No, actually, he’s not a bad person at all: caring, handsome, and smart. But I still hate him. After all, it is he who evokes her smile and that warm, beautiful tone that I will never forget. He occupies a place that should justly be mine. Only mine. But it’s her choice. And his choice. And, to some extent, my choice. April 5 We were having coffee in a small cafe located on the ground floor of a sprinkled house standing between ours. She talked about her and Mark’s plans to move to a house outside the city. “There will be a garden,” she said, and her fingers danced in the air, drawing imaginary flower beds and paths. — And Oliver, you will definitely have to come to the barbecue! You’re our main grill master.” “Ours.” It’s a word… it cuts me like a blunt blade. Mercilessly and painfully, but very slowly. I am “our” friend. A comfortable, loyal Oliver. From which there are no problems and surprises. I smiled, nodded, and joked about burning down their house if they trusted me with a barbecue. And inside he was screaming: “Why do you need a cabin? I can build a whole castle for you! And you will be happy in it! Just give me a chance!” But there is no chance. Mark is the one who sleeps next to her every night. And I’m writing about it here, in this stupid notebook, like a madman. April 11. 2:19 a.m. I just returned to my apartment. We were at our mutual friends' birthday party. Mark had his arm around her waist. And her hand was on his shoulder. It was… incredibly natural. Like breathing. She laughed a lot. Mostly over his jokes. And I wanted to burst into tears. But I couldn’t let them see it. I wanted to leave, but I couldn’t leave either. Just because she smiles very beautifully. And then, when everyone had had a few drinks, she came up to me. She came almost close. I suddenly noticed that she smelled of lily-of-the-valley perfume. “Oliver, you’re kind of quiet today. Is everything okay?” she asked. And she put her hand on my wrist. Her touch was so warm and soft. I looked at her fingers, at that thin gold — plated ring on her ring finger — Mark’s birthday present-and I wanted to take her hand and press it to my face. I jerked my hand away as if I’d been burned. “Just tired, Amanda. You know that. Work.” She looked at me with a slight sadness. And even with some understanding. Then she patted me gently on the shoulder. “Take care of yourself, our gloomy hero.” ADORE. I adore every mole, every curl of her unruly hair. I love her so much that it physically hurts, as if all my ribs are broken and every movement is responding to her. May 4th Nightmare. Literally a nightmare. I dreamed that I was telling her everything. I’m saying every word in this notebook. And she’s not even looking at me with disgust, but with… pity. Said: “Poor Oliver. How lonely you must be.” It’s worse. Much worse. A thousand times worse. I woke up with a feeling of emptiness in my chest. And this afternoon she sent a funny meme about cats. I replied with a similar one about a puppy. Our usual correspondence. Easy, friendly. May 22nd Sometimes I find myself obsessing that I hate not only Mark, but her as well. Because she can’t see. For being happy without me. For her blindness. And then I see how she genuinely worries that I have “no one” and tries to introduce me to someone. And my hatred immediately melts, turns into a terrifying shame and a terrible, such hopeless tenderness. It’s a vicious circle. June 7th I realized what “adoration” is in my case. It’s a willingness to burn to the ground, just to give her some warmth. I would give my future life, my peace of mind, my sanity. However, she doesn’t ask for it. He doesn’t want to. She needs me, a whole, collected, cheerful Oliver friend. And I’m playing that role. Every day. Mark asked my advice today about their anniversary gift. I recommended the very earrings she was pointing at admiringly a month ago. I saw the sparkle in her eyes the moment she saw them in the window. He thanked me. Amanda kissed him. And I was drinking cheap but strong wine and felt like an absolute monster. Because at that moment, I didn’t want their happiness. July 1st. Evening. This notebook ends. I can’t take it anymore. I can’t stand this dialogue with myself. It doesn’t lead to anything. She… pregnant. I said it today, beaming like the sun, in a way I’ve never seen before. “Mark and I are so happy! Oliver, you’re going to be a godfather, aren’t you?” Godfather. Finally putting me in the category of “for life, but not in the way you hoped.” And you know what? I said yes. Of course, I said yes. Because the alternative is to disappear completely from her life. But I definitely can’t. I love her. And I’m jealous. I adore every second in her presence and every hour I suffer in her absence. This is the strangest, ugliest, but true love that no one was supposed to see. Especially her. I’ll probably burn this notebook. Or I’ll hide it so deep that I’ll forget it myself. And tomorrow I will smile, I will plan a trip with them to choose a stroller. My love for her is a quiet, well — appointed hell in which I will live for the rest of my days. And I chose it myself. The end