Through the open window, I could see the contours of her slim body silhouetted against the rising sun. She's not much of an early riser, but the aroma of freshly brewed French vanilla coffee explains it all. I could almost imagine her orgasmic smile and the dilation of her cerulean eyes as she inhaled her liquid gold. It was the same look that overtook her delicate features when we were together—when I made her porcelain skin flush a deep crimson. She was so poised, so demure, so adored by all.
When I first met her, she was still the quirky, well-read Stars Hollow Princess who shied away from her family heritage. She had no idea the Gilmore name was a free-pass on the Yale campus and even if she did, she was not one to take advantage of her ascribed status. She was still naïve enough to believe she could succeed on her own merits, but in this milieu, your family name is practically tattooed to your forehead. There's no escaping it.
Even though our families ran in the same social circles, we didn't. She was Cinderella on Friday nights only to transform to her pauper self at the stroke of midnight. She always left one glass slipper behind so she would have some incentive to return. Her idea of a good time consisted of a good book and a good cup of coffee. She scrunched up her nose at foie gras, eating it with a forced propriety. But her expression would soften at the sight, or smell, of the infamous Luke's diner food. She could go on for days on how indulgent his slightly burned pancakes were with a dollop of Cool-Whip. Only she could use diner food synonymously with cuisine.
For some, she was too safe. For me, she was a gamble. My parents would never approve, but then again, when have I ever done anything to appease them? This is what I liked about her. She challenged me like no other being had and Huntzbergers love a challenge. Apparently, so do Gilmores. I introduced her to my fast paced world of free flowing champagne and salacious flings thinking it would permanently turn her away from this lifestyle. Instead, she embraced it and reformed me. She became a regular at the pub and I was suddenly boyfriend material. I was green with envy whenever any male was within a 10 mile radius from her. Our 'no-strings attached' deal was not working for me. To her, I was more than just a golden ticked to life on E-Z street. I was her intellectual equal, her companion, and her lover. Exclusivity seemed like a step in the right direction. I realize now what that entails as I watch her every movement. She's getting too close. I'm getting too close. Always fold before you're found out.
It has to end.
She's not the same girl I first met. She's still well-read, but she's lost her quirkiness. She's definitely a Princess, but she reigns over Hartford now. Stars Hollow isn't even on her map. She knows how to manipulate the Gilmore name to obtain a free-pass and revels in the fact that there's no need to tattoo Gilmore on her forehead because she's already left her mark. She's too immersed in this life that she can't escape it—she doesn't want to escape it.
Even though our families run in the same social circles, we don't. I'm done, she's only just beginning. She's no Cinderella. Cinderella was humble. She exchanged her glass slippers for Prada pumps. Her idea of a good time consists of hosting DAR soirées and indulging in exotic coffee blends. Foie gras is now a delicacy to be enjoyed on commemorative occasions. She hasn't set foot in a diner in over a year.
This is my Ace: the epitome of fucking perfection.
