Angelina had been in a bad mood for several days now. Although her friends had made an effort to make her feel better, it hadn't done much good.
When Ange had first showed up in Lockewood, she had accepted that Fred was gone. It had been painful and horrible and a long, drawn out process, but she had healed from it. And then she had found him here, alive and well and happy and wonderful, and all of that had been absolutely thrown out the window. He disappeared. He came back. She'd gone through a ridiculous fiasco trying to decide if she should stay with him- that, honestly, in the end, hadn't been much of a decision at all- and then she had been happy.
Being with Fred was easy. They fit well together. They laughed, and they teased and they did stupid things that reminded her of how things had been before the war. And then this aging thing had happened that Angelina still didn't understand. And he was gone again.
Except he wasn't gone. He was still here. She still saw him wandering around and going about his life. She just wasn't in it. And that was a completely different kind of loss.
When George had walked in, all she had originally seen was the red flash of hair, and despite herself, she'd gotten excited at the possibility that he had come in to see her. Closer inspection, however, proved otherwise, and Angelina let out a sigh as she stared down at the glass in her hand. What had she been doing with it, anyway?
With a frown, she set it down, but she pasted on a forced smile for George as she made her way over to him. "Hey, George. What can I get you?" She had the strange feeling he wanted to say something, something she doubted would end in a laugh (although, knowing him, an at least half-hearted attempt would be made somewhere along the way).