—— happily　( ｅｖｅｒ )　after

http://i1087.photobucket.com/albums/...iilove/hea.png



“Love, n. A temporary insanity curable by marriage.” — Ambrose Bierce
A PRIVATE ROLE-PLAY BETWEEN REVERSE AND JOONISM



OOC

"One mocha latte with peppermint sticks!"

The barista, a woman with dark curls, heavy make-up, and a strong jaw, yelled as she put the drink onto the counter. She didn't wait to see if someone would pick up the order (in fact, nobody had moved forward), but went right back to making the next thing (a green tea chai latte with soy milk).

It was still early in the morning—early in the sense that nobody sensible ever woke up before nine—but the store was filled with people, crowded with busy businessmen, stretched-thin college students, and people just trying to fill their days with something. Some were in a hurry—impatiently checking their wristwatches ever few seconds. Some where preoccupied with their phones—smiling at some unspoken secret. And then there was one, who was left waiting for a drink he didn't know he was never going to taste.

His name was Evan Charles Grey. He had short hair, green eyes, and a small, delicate nose—a women's nose. And as he stood there, waiting in line for his morning brew of too much caffeine and not enough sugar, he was suddenly struck by a last-minute realization: He had forgotten about his date.



The french doors opened to an autumn gust and a flustered: I'm so sorry!

Evan, after remembering his appoint, had rushed out of the store (leaving behind his overpriced five-dollar-twenty-two cent coffee), fighting the morning rush to catch the bus. And he had really tried to catch the bus, but, as luck would have it, he was just shy of the stop. Not only did he miss the over-packed, sardine-stuffed vehicle, but he had, somehow, managed to stand at the receiving end of muddy water and rainy residues.

Everything below his knees to his scuffed tennis shoes was splattered with a musky stench and early morning rain—not exactly the best compliments for what he was wearing (or anything, really).

The woman sitting at the far end (away from the couple that sat by the door and the gentleman on the opposite side), spared a only cursory glance towards Evan.

"You look awful." But it was the kind of statement that didn't genuinely invite an explanation. In fact, it didn't really invite anything at all.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "It's kind of a funny story, you see—"

"You should go get cleaned up. I can't have you meeting with the planner looking like that."

"Right, right. I'll go and, uh, I'll see what I can do."



The restroom was, like the rest of the place, beautifully decorated. Everything from the tiles to the sinks were polished to a point of actual glistening. And as Evan stepped inside, he couldn't help, but feel horribly out of place.

There he was, standing in the most pristine restroom in all of Los Angeles, wearing dirtied, muddied shoes and water-splashed pants. He wasn't even wearing nice pants. In contrast to Alicia's five-inch heels and painted nails, Evan was a fashion disaster. His glasses were slightly crooked on his face, his hair was a windy mess, and his clothes hung two sizes too big for his lanky body.

It was a miracle that someone like Alicia Bennet was betrothed to him—a miracle and then some.

But, then again, it takes all kinds of people to make the world interesting.



It was precisely twenty-two minutes and forty-two seconds later that Evan Grey emerged from the restroom. He had attempted to fix his flyaway hair—it was still no better than a rat's nest—and his shoes had significantly less mud caked to the bottom. Still, he was nothing like the other patrons, who were all smartly dressed and painted perfection.

"Ms. Alicia Bennet?" A woman asked aloud, a black folder resting in her hands. "Is Ms. Alicia Bennet here?"

Without missing a beat (but definitively not hurried), Alicia uncrossed her legs and stood up. If there was one thing about Evan that made him "suitable" for Alicia, it was his height. Even as she stood straight with her heels (just shy of reaching six feet), the top of her head met with the bottom of Evan's ears.

"Well, right this way, Ms. Bennet."

"You realize that you have an appointment in less than ten minutes and you cannot go into it with that thing in your hands." The man in front of her paced back and forth in the large space of the room, between her desk and the two comfortable leather chairs that sat facing her. His hands were clasped behind his back and he had a nervous look on his face, though she didn't exactly know why. It wasn't the first time he had done this, and certainly not she either.

With a roll of her dark eyes, she sighed and sucked the last of the apple juice from the box before lobbing it at her assistant's head. With a yelp and a smack as the little box fell to the wooden floors, Benjamin bent to pick it up, then placed it delicately into the trashcan that sat to the left of her.

Renee Kim was a very short woman with dark hair that reached the middle of her back and even darker eyes. Her long, thick lashes framed them nicely, putting her on the border of sexy. At the moment, her hair was tied up in a simple braided bun with wispy strands escaping to fall along her face. Though she wasn't one for it, she wore light make-up to look professional, and to go along with her coral colored dress that cinched at the waist. To finish it all, a nude jacket to match her equally nude colored pumps.

All-in-all, she hoped that she looked good because she had a very--and she meant it--important client coming in. She had managed to book Renee at the last second, so she was obviously desperate for expert help. Of course, she could always turn the client down, which she had already done once today out of her few appointments, but if she had sought her out at such a late time, she probably needed all the help she could get.

Somewhere in the room, a timer went off, and her brown eyes landed on Benjamin. His fingers found his watch quickly, quieting the beeps.

"It's time. I'm going to go call for someone to bring them up." He gave her a small glare. "I expect you to be a good girl when they get here." With a sigh, she pulled her bare feet from atop her desk and started to tidy up the paperwork around it, slipping her small feet back into her heels.

"I got it, I got it. Don't worry about me." With that, the tail of his coat whooshed out of the room and he was already down the hall.

Renee figured she had roughly five minutes still to herself before her next client walked in, so she used it to tidy up. Possibly just to make her friend proud. She sorted through the papers that littered the wooden surface, collecting them in piles then filing them in their correct drawers. Then, she lumped together all her personal items, scooping them up and dumping them in the bottom section, where the rest of her junk resided.

Soon, it was back to looking professional, and she quickly pulled a compact from her purse and checked her hair. It was still alright and the bun hadn't moved, but she patted down some of the fly-aways until she looked just right. Then, she swiped another coat of "Satin Blush" lipstick on, powdered her face, and checked her teeth.

"I look good," she muttered to herself, smoothing out her above-knee dress and pulled her jacket down. And she did. Though she knew she was nothing extraordinary, she had been complimented many times in her days. She was pretty. Some days, she was even beautiful.

That was usually enough for her.



There was a knock on her door, and Renee froze. She always did this right before she launched into her business facade. One deep breath—in through the nose, out through the mouth—and another, then, she settled into her big rolling chair, relaxing.

"Come on in." The door opened with a click and in walked possibly the most gorgeous woman she had ever seen. It took the biting of her lip to keep Renee from blurting out and asking right then and there of she was a model. Probably was, anyway. She looked down at her black binder, searching for a name with her finger.

"Alicia Bennet, correct? Hello, I'm Renee Kim. Very nice to meet you." With a smile, she motioned with her hand to the chairs in front of her. "Please take a seat." It took her a moment to realize she had brought a guest. A man. Not many women liked to take along the fiance when booking a wedding planner, so she guessed he was a friend or relative, maybe.

Or hey, maybe she was just different and he was the groom. She didn't have a clue, really.

With another smile—good thing she checked her teeth—she let her eyes fall on her black book once again, reading over her information. To be truthful, Renee wasn't even paying any attention to what she was reading. She hated knowing what her clients wanted at that moment, because most of the time, it really wasn't. Renee knew what they really wanted.

It was really just easier to hear from them the ideas of what they wanted, not the actual plan that they had. Who was the planner? Her. Not them. She would come up with what they would like, because that was her job. And she was good at it.

I mean, she was almost famous. That had to be some consolation.

Alicia walked with purpose—each step meeting firmly with the ground. She did not hurry in her stride and she did not falter as her heels—narrow as they were—threatened to snap. No, Alicia Bennet walked as if she owned the world and there was nothing—not gravity, not rumors—that could bring her down.

In contrast, Evan Grey was fighting a losing battle to stay presentable.

Where Alicia walked without hesitation, Evan's strides were riddled with uncertainty and painful discomfort. His eyes scanned the room, but adamantly refused to look anyone in the face. And where Alicia was graceful, Evan shuffled and slouched. His shoulders sagged and his expression was an awkward cross between professional and worried.

Shying slightly behind Alicia, who paid no attention to Evan's increasing discomfort, Evan's presence shrank even more. He hated places like this—places that decorated their walls, their floors, and every inch of their space. He, in his muddied clothes, was jarringly mismatched for the pristine setting. And even though nobody uttered a word about is attire, he could feel their eyes boring into his person—silently judging him.

The imagined judgment weighed heavily on his shoulders, but Alicia, indifferent as ever, simply carried on as if he didn't have dirt-stained pants or mud-caked shoes. No, Alicia treated everything as if they were meant to be like that.

As if nothing was out of the ordinary.

"Likewise," the blonde answered, her tone cool—controlled. Her smile, much like the planner's, was stiff in professionalism—effectively faked, but not sickeningly so. It was a practiced look—a trademark of the industry. "Ms. Kim, I'm certain that you must have a very busy schedule and I would hate to be a problem in it." From inside her purse, Alicia produced a thin file—black, leather-bound—and handed it to the planner. "I thought I could expedite the whole instance with a few prepared ideas and themes—a general vision."

Alicia Bennet, 31, was, contrary to her appearance, a hedge fund manager—a very successful hedge fund manager, who knew of only two things: ambition and success.

Inside the folder, there were neatly arranged and organized pictures and details of what she had wanted—what she had always wanted as a little girl. The ideas were, in large, simple and modern. And, much like Alicia, tastefully devoid of any real warmth. For Alicia, this wedding was as much a business transaction as it was when handling new clients. "As you can see, I'm not too into interested in the typical fairy tale world. I don't care too much for frills and—ah, flashiness."

There was a moment's pause as Alicia waited for Renee to speak. But, as if remembering something last minute, the blonde quickly added: Oh, I'm sorry—this is my fiance, Evan Grey. She gestured to Evan, who gave a shy smile and a small nod of his head. He may not have been the perfect image of power and success, but he wasn't anything horrifically disgusting either.

No, he may have been a little ragged from earlier events, but he was still marrying, possibly, one of the most beautiful women in the west coast of America.

"Excuse his appearance for today, Ms. Kim," Alicia continued, her tone slightly dismissive. "We ran into a bit of trouble on our way here. Terrible, really."

And, just as always, Alicia took things in stride—pausing and faltering at nothing.