folly

r | no warnings apply

She giggles when you kiss her, and that's about the point when you realize this is a stupid idea.

Actually, you realized this was a stupid idea back at the bar, sometime after the fourth drink, but before the fifth, when you figured out that the main difference between you and Donna is that she hasn't actually slept with her boss yet.

"Don't," you blurt out suddenly. She laughs even harder.

"Don't what?"

"Fuck him," you tell her, and now your voice is all seriousness. "John."

"John who?" She's unbuttoning her shirt. Maybe she doesn't think it's such a stupid idea after all.

"Your ... boss," you say hesitantly, because you might have consumed just enough alcohol to invent an imaginary boss/unrequited lover for her.

"Oh. His name isn't John. It's ... um. Josh. Joshua. He's in the hotel room right across the hall. Do you want to say hi? He's probably asleep by now, but if you pound on the door hard enough you could probably wake him up. I think you could. If you wanted, which you probably don't."

She's babbling, but you're distracted by the fact that her shirt is on the floor now, and there's only a sheer, pale blue bra covering her breasts. You think she might have had more to drink then you did, and now you wonder if you're taking advantage of her. At least, until she starts to work on the buttons of your own shirt.

"I'm serious, Donna. Trust me. I know about these things. Don't sleep with him."

There's a deliberateness to the way she undoes the clasp on your bra that makes you think that maybe she's not drunk at all.

"I don't wanna talk about Josh anymore," she says. Her voice is strong, determined. She brushes her fingers over your cheek; you kiss her palm.

"Okay." And neither of you say anything at all as the rest of your clothes hit the floor. It's been years since you've slept with a woman. You worry that she'll be able to tell, that she'll laugh at you, even though she doesn't seem like the kind of girl who would.

"He's not married," she says, just as you muster up the courage to grope her breast. Your thumb skirts over her nipple, your lips mark a path from her ear to her chin.

"It doesn't matter. They're all the same." Apparently, you're just drunk enough to be making gross generalizations. When you look up, you see that she's pursing her lips, and you're sure she's about two seconds away from telling you that he loves her.

So you kiss her. Harder than last time, sloppier. Her fingers roam aimlessly, finding your erogenous zones and then dancing away. You push her hand right where you need it, gasping when she accidentally finds your spot. You can't help it; you draw comparisons. Her touch is gentler than Jack's, but it's also slower, and it doesn't take long for frustration to build up.

"Jack loves me," you feel the need to tell her. "But it doesn't matter."

That's when her fingers move more quickly, making the sensation spiral out of control. You wonder what would happen if you screamed her name. You don't get to find out, as she plants her mouth on yours, swallowing your sighs. When the light behind your eyes and the buzz in your ears fade, you roll her on her back.

"He's got a girlfriend," she whispers.

"He's a bastard." You say this having never met the man. Her lip-gloss tastes like cherries. Her shoulder tastes like salt and beer. She keeps her eyes open as you move lower.

You grip her thigh, fingers poised and ready. If she says his name, your nails are going to draw blood.

(fin.)