LEX
By the time I reached the high school parking lot and found my Jaguar amidst an array of lesser forms of transportation, my mind was already beginning to administer second thoughts. Something that you would be unable to avoid, no matter how fast your car or the reckless manner in which you drive it.
And now I find myself sitting in my car, staring hard at the school as if looking for provocation or very good reasons for me to go in and join teenage splendor at its most glamorous in Smallville. I sit in a stupor of suddenly rationalized thoughts, the effect of which resembles getting your intoxicated head dunked in a tub of freezing water and getting shocked out of being drunk.
There is no good reason for me to go inside. Not to the public eye, or most importantly, Clark's eye. Any ordinary man can waltz inside and be treated as a member of the high school, but not me. Why would Lex Luthor, of all his historical clubbing glory behind his back, choose to seek entertainment in a high school Prom? Clark's favor is off my shoulders, I don't have a good reason.
But, of course I do. I never go to any destination without a purpose. It's a futility I can do without. My purpose for this evening, however, lacks conviction.
How do you explain away the compulsion to see Chloe's face?
No doubt about it. Sitting in this car, having left the comfort of my home to mingle with the different breeds of insecure and inane teenagers of Smallville in a traditional event practiced by the rest of the country and never particularly enjoyed by me (if only for the sole reason that bald teenagers are no Prom Kings, and I dislike losing) I have begun to confirm the suspicion that Chloe has managed to throw a very well-placed wrench into the well-oiled engine called my mind.
Something I feel far from thankful about, and am currently bordering on resentment.
But another part of me concedes, only too aware of the despair that lurches at the thought of her. I guess I still am drunk.
My name is Alexander Joseph Luthor and I am an alcoholic. Except that I'm not.
My name is Alexander Joseph Luthor and I can have anything that I want, or anything that does not breach the terms and conditions listed on the contract of being the son of Lionel Luthor. Sign with the company stamp in the presence of two witnesses.
And sweet, blonde teenage girls that will only serve to ruin your reputation and possibly break your heart in the process are not a part of that signed deal. Maybe the signed deal to ruin the empire you have painstakingly built in the 21 miserable years that you have been on this earth.
However, signed deal or no signed deal, I don't believe in wasted efforts. I came here on a purpose, however futile, and it would be no consolation for me to leave at this moment.
Maybe I should, at least, take a peek.
At which thought, I climbed out of my car and started striding my way towards the school, following the sound of music (or whatever form of sentimental shit it sounds like). I walked past the makeshift reception desk outside of the gym doors without hesitation, and without the redhead behind the desk stopping me, and walked in.
Walked in to an immediate view of Lana Lang and Whitney Fordham, arguing. The latter of which at first unrecognizable to me without the familiar red and yellow color over his shoulders in the form of a letterman jacket, but being slow on the uptake due to three quick shots of Scotch is nothing but understandable.
I seem to have missed the more exciting part, however, because almost as soon as I walk in, the argument abruptly ends by the departure of Super Jock, storming past me to the door I recently entered.
And then I realized something else.
He left Lana alone.
And with Clark being the servant to the people, or particularly the servant to Lana's fragile little heart, that would leave just one other person alone in here.
At which thought, I start scanning the crowds for a familiar blonde girl, having finally found a reasonable purpose.
CHLOE
All the former enjoyment I felt in seeing the little bit of drama on the dance floor started to ebb away when I saw the distraught look on Lana's pretty face, and gave away entirely when Whitney stormed off.
I don't know if it's a gift, a talent or an effect of the piece of meteorite she keeps around her neck on occasion (which seems to signify a need to become a deformed freak, and in result finding something else to feel tragic about), but Lana has this 'come hither and smooth my hair while I weep' quality about her that seems to affect all forms of human, sarcastic females with inferiority complexes included.
I watched as she started walking off the dance floor, away from the direction of where Whitney stalked off in typical St. Jock macho manner, and instead towards the ladies room. No one walked in after her, and with the drama gone, the evening continued. It made me wonder if the Homecoming Queen and inevitable Prom Queen and ex-pom pom girl had any real friends.
And here I am feeling sorry for her.
Which reminds me all too clearly of someone else. Glancing at the area where I deserted my 'Prom date', I find him glued to a spot closer to me than where I left him last, which shows that he at least attempted to search for me and made slight progress. At the very least.
His eyes are locked on the door she disappeared behind and he heaves a huge sigh.
I approach him. "Interesting evening so far. I wonder what other form of entertainment they have planned."
"I heard a bald man might make an appearance."
My head snaps at him, almost painfully. Bald man? Appearance? What? How? Where? When?
I stifle the questions and pretend to laugh. "Hahaha. Really. Where."
Annoyingly, he ignores it. "I hope Lana's okay."
Sure. Put her problems ahead of mine. Why not? I'm used to it anyway. It doesn't even register pain to me anymore, just a dulled contorted twist of envious rage.
Of course, Clark wouldn't know that Lex Luthor holds enough significance in my life to be called a 'problem'. Which, in fact, maybe he isn't. Or maybe the fact that he seems to hold significance in my eyes is what makes it a problem.
A big one if you don't bear any resemblance to Victoria Hardwick or whatever type of polished female specimen he has hanging on his arm. In this lifetime or any lifetimes in the future.
The enormity of this gives me a pain in my head and I decide to forget myself and concentrate on my friend in need, even if I resent him for it.
Although, looking at his anguished face, I'm beginning to suspect that there is no amount of damage control I could organize into the situation that would make him feel better.
And I know, with a certainty, that the only thing that will cheer Clark up tonight is a smile on Lana's face directed at him.
Oddly enough, I feel fine about it.
LEX
Typical.
I will forebear comments on the wilted decorations of the general event with the reasoning that being present at a huge number of upper class events is bound to make an ordinary high school Prom look pale in comparison.
However, being amidst a congregation of the teenaged population of Smallville where anything can happen (and in this town, 'anything' stretches to wild X-Files theories) and finding that in any event, the attention is still on Lana Lang, just seems to tell me that there is no hope for the younger generation and future leaders of Smallville to go beyond the town limits and themselves. Smallville is a doomed town with no hopes of reaching city stardom.
Which is fine, I suppose. People hate change. I find that especially true in townsfolk. Why do you think they hate me so much? What with my big bad cars and my big bad plant and my big bad house, I seem to be the epitome of everything they don't want to happen in this town.
I overhear two teenaged girls whispering furiously to each other about the little bit of soap opera as enacted by Lana Lang and Whitney Fordham, and am at least thankful that no one seems to be paying attention to me.
Until I notice more people eyeing me in bewilderment and alarm.
I smother the sore temptation to flip my middle finger at them. Instead I direct my energy towards finding the reason as to why I am subjecting myself to this outright humiliation of being treated like an outsider. Teenagers have no tact.
I start making my way around the gym in a disinterested stance when I see a familiar blonde head and feel an annoying quickening of my pulse, which eludes the disinterested behavior altogether, if only to myself. Fortunately, being a scary outsider and all-round intimidating figure does have its fringe benefits: I never have to walk through a throng of people without them willingly stepping out of my way.
I intend to use this to the best of my abilities when I walk into a brick wall instead.
After the general dazed and confused euphoria that comes in the aftermath of walking yourself bodily into a wall, I find the brick wall to be Clark Kent.
"Lex, what are you doing here?" he says, with the innocence of a schoolboy totally unaware that his best friend has come here with thoughts of pursuing his blonde friend.
"Just thought I'd drop by," and feel a painful high degree of alarm when I detect a slight slurry quality to my voice. Oh shit. Maybe I am drunk.
Thankfully, Clark doesn't seem to notice it. He awards my little piece of dishonesty with a huge smile that hurts my eyes. "I'm glad you decided to come."
"I was bored out of my mind so I figured this couldn't be any worse." Still looking for Chloe and with no inclination to indulge in friendly small talk, I ask, "Where's your-?"
He interrupts me. "By the way, I kind of made up an excuse for you."
I stop. "What do you mean, Clark?"
"I made up an excuse to Chloe why you couldn't go with her." There's a guilt-ridden expression on his face that would make any normal person incredulous.
Far from incredulity, I'm more worried about what excuse he gave her, particularly in the knowledge that lying is far down on the list of Clark's better talents. "Which was?"
"I just said something came up."
"What came up?"
"I didn't specify."
Thank God. "Thanks," I say, not sure what I should be thankful about, besides the fact that Clark has unwittingly put a thorn in Chloe's good thoughts of me (if she has any) by making her less important than something that came up.
And she is, I quickly remind myself. Had something come up that required my full and undivided attention, she would have been the less important of the two. Remember yourself, Luthor.
But since nothing has come up tonight, "Where is she?"
"She went to the ladies," he says. "To check on Lana."
I pause at his words, as if slowly registering them, which I am. "Why?"
Clark shrugs. "Worried about her, I guess."
Worried about her, he guesses. I feel myself asking him with an odd tinge of resentment, "Did you make her check on Lana?"
Clark denies this with a quick, "NO!" The loudness of which elevates over the sentimental crap playing on the speakers (what is that? Enrique Iglesias? Christ) and goes straight to piercing my eardrums. He amends this with a more calm and convincing, "No."
Good. But I refrain from saying as such. After all that has happened in the whirlwind of the past two days, I don't think I've ever felt this urgent need to keep my friendship with Clark intact. He seems to be the only thing normal in my life, and I cling to what I know.
Even so, I picture the two girls in my mind, both the very opposite of each other yet united by the same farm boy in their lives. One very upset and the other probably struggling to keep her sarcasm in check.
It must be a nightmare for her.
CHLOE
As if my night couldn't get any worse. I have to be stuck in this whitewashed excuse of a bathroom babysitting the Prom Queen and passing tissues to her so her tears won't ruin the make-up on her face which would be on show for the whole of Smallville to see when she collects her crown for Prom Queen.
A fate, I decide, Lana could probably do without.
"He just makes me so mad!" she exclaims, for the hundredth time.
"I know," I sigh, for my ninety-ninth.
But I brought this on myself, so I shouldn't complain. I don't know what it is exactly that made me decide to console Lana in one of her many moments of grief, but I did. I'm suspecting a curiosity to know what exactly they were arguing about, a curiosity I suppose comes with my penchant for drama.
I am my own worst enemy. Standing side by side with Lana, knowing from our reflections in the mirror that she looks prettier than me even in tears, confirms that fact.
But since I'm a person that turns to rationality in the face of despair, I decide to subject Lana to a bit of optimism with this obvious reminder, "It's not the end of the world."
"I know," she sniffles prettily. "It's just, GOD, why doesn't he understand?"
"Understand what, exactly?"
"That Clark and I are just friends!" Oh God, here it comes. "Why does he have to be so jealous of him?"
Besides the fact that if they were in New York instead of Smallville, Clark would be hunted down by several modeling agencies whereas Whitney would probably find himself gracing the counters of Burger King.
That's right, Chloe, bite down the sarcasm. Bite it hard.
"In all seriousness, Lana, considering the fact that I'm one of Clark's best friends, I find the 'friendship' term between you and him to be a very blurry image."
"No," she insists. "No. It's not like that, Chloe."
Who does she think she's fooling?
"REALLY," she insists, seeing my disbelieving face.
Not in the mood to argue, especially over the subject of Clark, I shrug. "Okay."
Satisfied that everything in her world has gone back to the black and white tragedy of her normal life, which does not deal with the colored confusions of maybe (shock horrors) liking Clark a bit more than she'd like to admit, she dries her eyes and takes a deep breath.
"Ready for the world?" I can't keep the wry tone out of my voice.
She gives me a watery smile and nods. "Thanks, Chloe. You've made me feel tons better."
Suddenly gratified at this angelic image of me, I grin at her. "Thanks."
LEX
Finally the moment we've all been waiting for: Lana and Chloe emerge from the ladies room with a look of spiritual contentment on Lana's face and a look of desperation on Chloe's.
I turn my watchful, if not slightly hazy, eye on Clark, who watches them passively.
When I notice Chloe separating herself from Lana and moving towards a direction away from us, to where I highly suspect is the buffet table, I ask Clark, "So what are you going to do about it?"
"Lana or Chloe?" he says, dryly.
"At least realize that you have the good fortune to choose between two beautiful ladies, Clark."
He looks at me weirdly, probably not understanding a word I'm saying. "One of which has a boyfriend and the other being my best friend."
I'm hit with the awareness that Clark would most probably remain clueless of the effect he has on these two women until the end of his days.
I point out his obvious choice. "Go and comfort Lana."
"Do you think I should?"
"I would." Which isn't true. If I found Chloe upset over Clark I think I would prefer the easier choice of staying away. I prefer to remain sedate from antagonizing matters of the heart, and I suspect that seeing Chloe heartbroken over Clark would only succeed in binding me with acute agony. I add, for Clark's comfort, and my benefit, "I'll take care of Chloe."
Clark gives me a grateful smile, and I cut off his thanks. You don't thank men with ulterior motives.
And so, I leave Clark and make my way easily through the crowd, and find her at the buffet table. Seemingly lost in conversation with the cup of punch in my hand, she's unaware of me standing some feet away from her.
She looks pretty.
Beautiful wouldn't be the word to describe Chloe, and it never will be. She knows that as much as I know that, even with this tolerably strong feeling for her in my chest. Strong enough to pardon her of all the sarcastic comments she throws at me, and strong enough to make me appreciate them instead.
But she does have a beautiful smile.
Of course, I wouldn't be myself if I didn't hesitate. However (or maybe I'm still drunk), the sight of her seems to beckon at me with a provocative apple scent, and tells me that whatever urges I need to cleanse out of my system is there.
In that girl with the pink dress.
I find myself walking towards her before I'm even aware that my feet have made the progress without consulting my mind.
And as I walk to her, I'm hit with a clarifying certainty, which swallows my hesitation and puts on a brave new face. That whatever the outcome of this evening, my life would never boil down to an evening spent with a pretty girl. Chloe could reject me in the most painful or degrading of manners, and my views of the world would not alter a bit. I would still wake up tomorrow morning, with the same ambitions in mind, and nothing would change.
But the attempt for world domination would have to be shelved for tomorrow.
I can plead insanity tonight.
* * * * * *
Author's Note: I have nothing against Enrique Iglesias whatsoever, just have a feeling that Lex wouldn't like his music.
Love the reviews, each one, what a buzz, thanks so much! :)
By the time I reached the high school parking lot and found my Jaguar amidst an array of lesser forms of transportation, my mind was already beginning to administer second thoughts. Something that you would be unable to avoid, no matter how fast your car or the reckless manner in which you drive it.
And now I find myself sitting in my car, staring hard at the school as if looking for provocation or very good reasons for me to go in and join teenage splendor at its most glamorous in Smallville. I sit in a stupor of suddenly rationalized thoughts, the effect of which resembles getting your intoxicated head dunked in a tub of freezing water and getting shocked out of being drunk.
There is no good reason for me to go inside. Not to the public eye, or most importantly, Clark's eye. Any ordinary man can waltz inside and be treated as a member of the high school, but not me. Why would Lex Luthor, of all his historical clubbing glory behind his back, choose to seek entertainment in a high school Prom? Clark's favor is off my shoulders, I don't have a good reason.
But, of course I do. I never go to any destination without a purpose. It's a futility I can do without. My purpose for this evening, however, lacks conviction.
How do you explain away the compulsion to see Chloe's face?
No doubt about it. Sitting in this car, having left the comfort of my home to mingle with the different breeds of insecure and inane teenagers of Smallville in a traditional event practiced by the rest of the country and never particularly enjoyed by me (if only for the sole reason that bald teenagers are no Prom Kings, and I dislike losing) I have begun to confirm the suspicion that Chloe has managed to throw a very well-placed wrench into the well-oiled engine called my mind.
Something I feel far from thankful about, and am currently bordering on resentment.
But another part of me concedes, only too aware of the despair that lurches at the thought of her. I guess I still am drunk.
My name is Alexander Joseph Luthor and I am an alcoholic. Except that I'm not.
My name is Alexander Joseph Luthor and I can have anything that I want, or anything that does not breach the terms and conditions listed on the contract of being the son of Lionel Luthor. Sign with the company stamp in the presence of two witnesses.
And sweet, blonde teenage girls that will only serve to ruin your reputation and possibly break your heart in the process are not a part of that signed deal. Maybe the signed deal to ruin the empire you have painstakingly built in the 21 miserable years that you have been on this earth.
However, signed deal or no signed deal, I don't believe in wasted efforts. I came here on a purpose, however futile, and it would be no consolation for me to leave at this moment.
Maybe I should, at least, take a peek.
At which thought, I climbed out of my car and started striding my way towards the school, following the sound of music (or whatever form of sentimental shit it sounds like). I walked past the makeshift reception desk outside of the gym doors without hesitation, and without the redhead behind the desk stopping me, and walked in.
Walked in to an immediate view of Lana Lang and Whitney Fordham, arguing. The latter of which at first unrecognizable to me without the familiar red and yellow color over his shoulders in the form of a letterman jacket, but being slow on the uptake due to three quick shots of Scotch is nothing but understandable.
I seem to have missed the more exciting part, however, because almost as soon as I walk in, the argument abruptly ends by the departure of Super Jock, storming past me to the door I recently entered.
And then I realized something else.
He left Lana alone.
And with Clark being the servant to the people, or particularly the servant to Lana's fragile little heart, that would leave just one other person alone in here.
At which thought, I start scanning the crowds for a familiar blonde girl, having finally found a reasonable purpose.
CHLOE
All the former enjoyment I felt in seeing the little bit of drama on the dance floor started to ebb away when I saw the distraught look on Lana's pretty face, and gave away entirely when Whitney stormed off.
I don't know if it's a gift, a talent or an effect of the piece of meteorite she keeps around her neck on occasion (which seems to signify a need to become a deformed freak, and in result finding something else to feel tragic about), but Lana has this 'come hither and smooth my hair while I weep' quality about her that seems to affect all forms of human, sarcastic females with inferiority complexes included.
I watched as she started walking off the dance floor, away from the direction of where Whitney stalked off in typical St. Jock macho manner, and instead towards the ladies room. No one walked in after her, and with the drama gone, the evening continued. It made me wonder if the Homecoming Queen and inevitable Prom Queen and ex-pom pom girl had any real friends.
And here I am feeling sorry for her.
Which reminds me all too clearly of someone else. Glancing at the area where I deserted my 'Prom date', I find him glued to a spot closer to me than where I left him last, which shows that he at least attempted to search for me and made slight progress. At the very least.
His eyes are locked on the door she disappeared behind and he heaves a huge sigh.
I approach him. "Interesting evening so far. I wonder what other form of entertainment they have planned."
"I heard a bald man might make an appearance."
My head snaps at him, almost painfully. Bald man? Appearance? What? How? Where? When?
I stifle the questions and pretend to laugh. "Hahaha. Really. Where."
Annoyingly, he ignores it. "I hope Lana's okay."
Sure. Put her problems ahead of mine. Why not? I'm used to it anyway. It doesn't even register pain to me anymore, just a dulled contorted twist of envious rage.
Of course, Clark wouldn't know that Lex Luthor holds enough significance in my life to be called a 'problem'. Which, in fact, maybe he isn't. Or maybe the fact that he seems to hold significance in my eyes is what makes it a problem.
A big one if you don't bear any resemblance to Victoria Hardwick or whatever type of polished female specimen he has hanging on his arm. In this lifetime or any lifetimes in the future.
The enormity of this gives me a pain in my head and I decide to forget myself and concentrate on my friend in need, even if I resent him for it.
Although, looking at his anguished face, I'm beginning to suspect that there is no amount of damage control I could organize into the situation that would make him feel better.
And I know, with a certainty, that the only thing that will cheer Clark up tonight is a smile on Lana's face directed at him.
Oddly enough, I feel fine about it.
LEX
Typical.
I will forebear comments on the wilted decorations of the general event with the reasoning that being present at a huge number of upper class events is bound to make an ordinary high school Prom look pale in comparison.
However, being amidst a congregation of the teenaged population of Smallville where anything can happen (and in this town, 'anything' stretches to wild X-Files theories) and finding that in any event, the attention is still on Lana Lang, just seems to tell me that there is no hope for the younger generation and future leaders of Smallville to go beyond the town limits and themselves. Smallville is a doomed town with no hopes of reaching city stardom.
Which is fine, I suppose. People hate change. I find that especially true in townsfolk. Why do you think they hate me so much? What with my big bad cars and my big bad plant and my big bad house, I seem to be the epitome of everything they don't want to happen in this town.
I overhear two teenaged girls whispering furiously to each other about the little bit of soap opera as enacted by Lana Lang and Whitney Fordham, and am at least thankful that no one seems to be paying attention to me.
Until I notice more people eyeing me in bewilderment and alarm.
I smother the sore temptation to flip my middle finger at them. Instead I direct my energy towards finding the reason as to why I am subjecting myself to this outright humiliation of being treated like an outsider. Teenagers have no tact.
I start making my way around the gym in a disinterested stance when I see a familiar blonde head and feel an annoying quickening of my pulse, which eludes the disinterested behavior altogether, if only to myself. Fortunately, being a scary outsider and all-round intimidating figure does have its fringe benefits: I never have to walk through a throng of people without them willingly stepping out of my way.
I intend to use this to the best of my abilities when I walk into a brick wall instead.
After the general dazed and confused euphoria that comes in the aftermath of walking yourself bodily into a wall, I find the brick wall to be Clark Kent.
"Lex, what are you doing here?" he says, with the innocence of a schoolboy totally unaware that his best friend has come here with thoughts of pursuing his blonde friend.
"Just thought I'd drop by," and feel a painful high degree of alarm when I detect a slight slurry quality to my voice. Oh shit. Maybe I am drunk.
Thankfully, Clark doesn't seem to notice it. He awards my little piece of dishonesty with a huge smile that hurts my eyes. "I'm glad you decided to come."
"I was bored out of my mind so I figured this couldn't be any worse." Still looking for Chloe and with no inclination to indulge in friendly small talk, I ask, "Where's your-?"
He interrupts me. "By the way, I kind of made up an excuse for you."
I stop. "What do you mean, Clark?"
"I made up an excuse to Chloe why you couldn't go with her." There's a guilt-ridden expression on his face that would make any normal person incredulous.
Far from incredulity, I'm more worried about what excuse he gave her, particularly in the knowledge that lying is far down on the list of Clark's better talents. "Which was?"
"I just said something came up."
"What came up?"
"I didn't specify."
Thank God. "Thanks," I say, not sure what I should be thankful about, besides the fact that Clark has unwittingly put a thorn in Chloe's good thoughts of me (if she has any) by making her less important than something that came up.
And she is, I quickly remind myself. Had something come up that required my full and undivided attention, she would have been the less important of the two. Remember yourself, Luthor.
But since nothing has come up tonight, "Where is she?"
"She went to the ladies," he says. "To check on Lana."
I pause at his words, as if slowly registering them, which I am. "Why?"
Clark shrugs. "Worried about her, I guess."
Worried about her, he guesses. I feel myself asking him with an odd tinge of resentment, "Did you make her check on Lana?"
Clark denies this with a quick, "NO!" The loudness of which elevates over the sentimental crap playing on the speakers (what is that? Enrique Iglesias? Christ) and goes straight to piercing my eardrums. He amends this with a more calm and convincing, "No."
Good. But I refrain from saying as such. After all that has happened in the whirlwind of the past two days, I don't think I've ever felt this urgent need to keep my friendship with Clark intact. He seems to be the only thing normal in my life, and I cling to what I know.
Even so, I picture the two girls in my mind, both the very opposite of each other yet united by the same farm boy in their lives. One very upset and the other probably struggling to keep her sarcasm in check.
It must be a nightmare for her.
CHLOE
As if my night couldn't get any worse. I have to be stuck in this whitewashed excuse of a bathroom babysitting the Prom Queen and passing tissues to her so her tears won't ruin the make-up on her face which would be on show for the whole of Smallville to see when she collects her crown for Prom Queen.
A fate, I decide, Lana could probably do without.
"He just makes me so mad!" she exclaims, for the hundredth time.
"I know," I sigh, for my ninety-ninth.
But I brought this on myself, so I shouldn't complain. I don't know what it is exactly that made me decide to console Lana in one of her many moments of grief, but I did. I'm suspecting a curiosity to know what exactly they were arguing about, a curiosity I suppose comes with my penchant for drama.
I am my own worst enemy. Standing side by side with Lana, knowing from our reflections in the mirror that she looks prettier than me even in tears, confirms that fact.
But since I'm a person that turns to rationality in the face of despair, I decide to subject Lana to a bit of optimism with this obvious reminder, "It's not the end of the world."
"I know," she sniffles prettily. "It's just, GOD, why doesn't he understand?"
"Understand what, exactly?"
"That Clark and I are just friends!" Oh God, here it comes. "Why does he have to be so jealous of him?"
Besides the fact that if they were in New York instead of Smallville, Clark would be hunted down by several modeling agencies whereas Whitney would probably find himself gracing the counters of Burger King.
That's right, Chloe, bite down the sarcasm. Bite it hard.
"In all seriousness, Lana, considering the fact that I'm one of Clark's best friends, I find the 'friendship' term between you and him to be a very blurry image."
"No," she insists. "No. It's not like that, Chloe."
Who does she think she's fooling?
"REALLY," she insists, seeing my disbelieving face.
Not in the mood to argue, especially over the subject of Clark, I shrug. "Okay."
Satisfied that everything in her world has gone back to the black and white tragedy of her normal life, which does not deal with the colored confusions of maybe (shock horrors) liking Clark a bit more than she'd like to admit, she dries her eyes and takes a deep breath.
"Ready for the world?" I can't keep the wry tone out of my voice.
She gives me a watery smile and nods. "Thanks, Chloe. You've made me feel tons better."
Suddenly gratified at this angelic image of me, I grin at her. "Thanks."
LEX
Finally the moment we've all been waiting for: Lana and Chloe emerge from the ladies room with a look of spiritual contentment on Lana's face and a look of desperation on Chloe's.
I turn my watchful, if not slightly hazy, eye on Clark, who watches them passively.
When I notice Chloe separating herself from Lana and moving towards a direction away from us, to where I highly suspect is the buffet table, I ask Clark, "So what are you going to do about it?"
"Lana or Chloe?" he says, dryly.
"At least realize that you have the good fortune to choose between two beautiful ladies, Clark."
He looks at me weirdly, probably not understanding a word I'm saying. "One of which has a boyfriend and the other being my best friend."
I'm hit with the awareness that Clark would most probably remain clueless of the effect he has on these two women until the end of his days.
I point out his obvious choice. "Go and comfort Lana."
"Do you think I should?"
"I would." Which isn't true. If I found Chloe upset over Clark I think I would prefer the easier choice of staying away. I prefer to remain sedate from antagonizing matters of the heart, and I suspect that seeing Chloe heartbroken over Clark would only succeed in binding me with acute agony. I add, for Clark's comfort, and my benefit, "I'll take care of Chloe."
Clark gives me a grateful smile, and I cut off his thanks. You don't thank men with ulterior motives.
And so, I leave Clark and make my way easily through the crowd, and find her at the buffet table. Seemingly lost in conversation with the cup of punch in my hand, she's unaware of me standing some feet away from her.
She looks pretty.
Beautiful wouldn't be the word to describe Chloe, and it never will be. She knows that as much as I know that, even with this tolerably strong feeling for her in my chest. Strong enough to pardon her of all the sarcastic comments she throws at me, and strong enough to make me appreciate them instead.
But she does have a beautiful smile.
Of course, I wouldn't be myself if I didn't hesitate. However (or maybe I'm still drunk), the sight of her seems to beckon at me with a provocative apple scent, and tells me that whatever urges I need to cleanse out of my system is there.
In that girl with the pink dress.
I find myself walking towards her before I'm even aware that my feet have made the progress without consulting my mind.
And as I walk to her, I'm hit with a clarifying certainty, which swallows my hesitation and puts on a brave new face. That whatever the outcome of this evening, my life would never boil down to an evening spent with a pretty girl. Chloe could reject me in the most painful or degrading of manners, and my views of the world would not alter a bit. I would still wake up tomorrow morning, with the same ambitions in mind, and nothing would change.
But the attempt for world domination would have to be shelved for tomorrow.
I can plead insanity tonight.
* * * * * *
Author's Note: I have nothing against Enrique Iglesias whatsoever, just have a feeling that Lex wouldn't like his music.
Love the reviews, each one, what a buzz, thanks so much! :)