AUTHOR'S NOTE - This is an impromptu drabble that just came to my mind. Any and all relations to the real life are accidental. :D
No beta, English not my mother tongue and I own nothing.

Jibbs, for those who know where to look for it. It's quite glaring, this time.

ENJOY!


THE ITCH

London, 2000.

It's been months. Months. And she really needed for her itch to be scratched. By someone other than her.

So she put on her skimpiest dress and her highest heels and went out.

She pretended to be a clueless American tourist, ridiculously turned on by his British accent.

He was cute enough, she supposed, what with his dark hair, green eyes and dimples.

But she never did go for cute.

He offered to give her the tour of London's finest monuments and she giggled and hid her face behind her hands and hated herself for behaving the way she did.

But she really needed for someone to take care of her itch.

He took her back to her place and opened a bottle of wine. She wanted to scream at him to just take her to bed already.

Instead, she smiled and gulped down a full glass of Bordeaux.

And once it was all done, he lay next to her with an incredibly smug look on his face and she wanted to scream because she, once again, had to take the matters into her own hands.

Quite literally.

She quickly slipped out of his bed, put on her clothes and then approached him before she left, her lips grazing his ear.

"I've had better. Much – much – better."

And she supposed she was better off with her imagination and the memories of the one that was so much better.


- THE END -