Disclaimer: Characters aren't mine…
A/N: I was cleaning out my computer and realized I'd posted this on LJ but not here, so enjoy…
You don't even really remember how you ended up at the bar. You had just been walking, escaping, and the next thing you knew, you had no idea where you were, but there was what appeared to be a club and getting rip roaring drunk sounded damn good. So you walked in hoping to drown your sorrows.
You had come back to New York hoping to get her back. Working in Boston was everything you had hoped it would be, but without her, it all seemed pointless. So you met her for dinner, planning on wining, dining and sweeping her off her feet. You had asked, cajoled, practically fucking begged her to take you back. Had told her you'd move back to New York, whatever it took. And then she totally and completely broke your heart by saying she was already with somebody else.
You couldn't hold it against her though. You had been the one to break it off and leave. You had been the one that said she had changed. You just wanted her to be happy, even if it wasn't with you. But it still left a hole in your heart, so you took off walking, no destination in mind and wound up here.
When you walked in, you didn't even bother to look around, but now after you've downed two shots and stared into a glass of beer for a while, you turn your back to the bar to take in your surroundings. By the stance you're in, it might look like you're on the prowl, but you doubt that'll be the case anytime soon. No, you're just taking in your surroundings.
You notice that for it to be so hidden and in the middle of nowhere, for New York anyways, that it's got a pretty good crowd. You also see that it's an open-minded establishment as there are both opposite and same sex couples there.
As you're scanning over the crowd, you look at the dance floor and see her. She had said she needed to get back to work, that there was an article she had to get typed up, but even then you knew she was lying, and now you know why. You're not sure how you knew it was her because it looks nothing like the Andy you know, but you somehow know without a doubt and only a single glance that it is.
Your Andy wore sweats instead of lingerie. More often than not, your Andy threw her hair up in a messy bun or left it down and straight. Your Andy wore very little make-up and was content with being good looking and comfortable rather than beautiful and done up.
This Andy is wearing a short, slinky, red dress and fuck-me heels. Yeah, you saw her dress up numerous times with her job at Runway, but never in anything this fucking sexy before. It looks like it was made for her, the way it hugs her curves and flows along with every move she makes.
This Andy's hair is down, but not straight like it usually is and was earlier in the evening. You can tell that it must be some fashionable do, but what it really looks like is that she's been thoroughly fucked and enjoyed every second of it. You try to remember if it ever looked like that after the two of you made love, but you're almost positive it never did. And even though you know she made it look like that instead of it being caused by the reason that comes to mind when you see it, you're still jealous.
This Andy is practically plastered to her dancing partner who you haven't even bothered to look at. In all the years you've known her, you've never seen her dancing like this; not in college, not with you, not ever.
By the tilt of her head you can tell she's either placing feather light kisses on her partner's neck or purring seductively in their ear. You don't know why you think this is what she's doing. You were the one that gave the feather light kisses in your relationship; worshiping her body with tenderness. And there was no seductive purring from her either. There were gasps and moans and pleas, but you were typically the one to do the seducing.
As you watch, the feeling of jealous grows. Who is this person that has Andy acting so completely different and so fucking sexy? Even as the jealousy grows, you continue to watch her, every movement screaming sex. The sudden image of her making such movements underneath you resurfaces from long ago.
You finally have to look away because all of these thoughts of Andy and sex are causing your jeans to fill just a little too restrictive. But your eyes don't stray far; they go automatically to her dance partner. The erection that had started by watching Andy was immediately extinguished. Because without seeing their face, you automatically know who it is, the head of white hair an immediate give a way. Miranda. Miranda Priestly. Miranda fucking Priestly.
She is who has this Andy acting and looking this way. This Andy, who is so obviously not your Andy, has been ensnared by the woman who at first you were convinced she hated, but as it went on and on, you had the sudden fear that she may have loved.
And you hate Miranda for that. Hate her for changing your Andy into this siren that's drawing everyone in the club to her, including you. Hate her for turning your Andy into someone you could never have. Could never obtain. Could never keep. Could never deserve.
"Shit," you mutter into your beer when you see them move in unison and meet in a kiss. And even though you hate Miranda with every fiber of your being, you can't help but feel the stirrings of arousal again as you watch them. They're so passionate. It's as if they want to consume each other, as if they can't be torn apart by anything or anyone.
"That is so fucking hot," you hear the guy beside you say. You can't hold back the growl this comment causes you to make. This asshole has no right to talk about Andy that way. Even if she's not your Andy, she still deserves respect.
He looks at you surprised. "What?" he asks. "I mean look at them. You can't say that's not hot."
You give him a glare before turning back to watch them. You wish you didn't have to witness their little display, but you can't seem to stop yourself. You watch as they finally pull apart and can see the desire from all the way across the bar. You see Miranda lean in and whisper in Andy's ear before taking it in between her teeth and can practically feel Andy's shiver against your own skin.
You follow them with your eyes as they make their way out of the bar. Now that the show's over and your own excitement has abated, hate returns. You can't fucking believe Miranda did this to your Andy.
You briefly wonder why you harbor no such feelings for Andy as well, but you know you could never hate her, even if she was the one to turn into the person you just saw. Your Andy doesn't dress like that. Your Andy doesn't look like that. Your Andy doesn't dance like that. Your Andy doesn't act like that. But even though your Andy no longer exists, you'll still always have her. Even if it's only in your heart and dreams.