A/N: I wasn't sure if I was gonna even post this here, since I did in several communities on LJ, but since there is a slightly different crowd here sometimes, I decided to. And besides a 100-word drabble, I've got nothing else, heh heh . . . Anyway, it's a little different from the usual I read around here (don't get me wrong, I like the usual, um, usually). Tell me what you think.
Disclaimer: HA! Craig Bartlett's. Not mine.
Evil
Weddings always seem to bring out the worst in some people. Perky twenty year-olds arriving in skin-tight miniskirts designed solely to make the groom turn his head and sigh, jealous thirty-somethings dodging disastrous set-ups at the reception, middle-aged divorcees getting drunk and mooning over bridesmaids half their age.
Or, in other cases, married friends acting very . . . single.
"Crimeny, do they always have to play such corny music at these things?" Helga snorted, wrinkling her nose. She smoothed out her modest blue dress and looked up at the huge "Congratulations Rhonda and Harold!" banner that hid them from the rest of the reception. Of course the wedding had been extravagant; imported doves had flown, expensive European champagne had been toasted, and now an over-dressed Dino Spumoni look-alike was crooning eighties love songs on a custom heart-shaped stage.
Gerald cringed. "You're telling me."
She eyed him cautiously. She knew that she didn't love him. Of course she didn't love him, she loved Arnold. But he was thousands of miles away, scanning the deserts or jungles or wherever he was that week. She had wanted to go along so badly, but he'd told her that the trip was too dangerous and refused to take her. She had stomped around the apartment for weeks until he left, and for days afterward. She was angry at him for leaving her . . . alone.
"So . . . h-how's things?" Helga attempted small talk, even though they had stolen away to the secluded part of the reception hall for a different reason. Gerald grinned, and she looked away. He pulled her close, tracing the back of his hand against her smooth porcelain cheek. By the time she looked back up at him - as tall as she was for a woman, he still had at least six inches on her - her eyes were watery. Sniffling, she whispered, "I miss him."
"Please don't cry," he whispered back, wiping a few stray tears from her cheeks. "It'll be okay, it'll all be just fine."
Instantaneously, her back was against the wall and he was kissing her, hard. She ran her fingers through his thick - albeit shorter - hair and he rested his hands on her hips. She could taste the alcohol on his breath and knew he could on hers as well, but it didn't matter then. All that mattered was that he was here, with her now. Thoughts of pure lust shot through her mind, and she couldn't help but give in more. Her hands brushed down his arms and as she pulled him closer by his belt loops, she thought that this was by far the worst thing she'd ever done.
By the time they reached the room upstairs, she felt positively evil.
End
A/N: Good? Bad? So awful you feel like poking your eyes out & chasing me down with torches & pitchforks (which might be difficult without your eyes, mind you)? Questions, comments, or funny stories? Let me know, please!