RaStro FicS

Into the lens (1)

Half an hour into Glaiza's first office party and she already wanted to go home. Almost everyone was wearing black so she stuck out like a nut in her stupid red satin wrap dress. She'd already worn it to her cousin's wedding last summer. She's a smidge on the chesty side and even as a teenager, she had the feeling that swinging cleavage around at a work party would be tacky.

What she didn't count on that night was not having a single person to talk to. Sure, she was the 'in demand' photographer that worked one or two photoshoots in a regular day, everyone was usually super friendly of course. Well, okay, mostly the crew. And they were guys. She's young, skinny, short hair, with a pretty face and friendly. As far as boys go, she's a hot fudge sundae. Ever meet someone that doesn't like hot fudge sundaes? So she usually flirted with the office guys a little. Just jokes and stuff, it never got gross. They were well-behaved professional types and old enough to know better. There was zero flirty chitchat that night though. Just her standing awkwardly by herself. She never know what to do with her hands when she wear a dress. There's no pockets or anything. Folding her arms under her chest wasn't an option either. That would push things up and the goal was to avoid drawing attention there. Besides, it was bad body language if she wanted anyone to talk to her. Not that anyone was going to.

"Great idea, Dad," She muttered. He'd been the one urging Glaiza to come to this stupid party. He'd been elaborating the perks of being in a relationship since she'd been staying with her family for days as her mother gets sulky when she and Alchris didn't visit. Her brother was supposed to be coming with her but opted to get away the weekend visiting their cousins. With both of them out of the house, there was no telling what sort of weird sex acts her parents were performing on each other right now. She tried not to dwell on the fact that her fifty year-old mother had a better sex life than her these days.

She started fiddling with her hair, wrapping a lock around her finger. It was a bad habit and she needed to stop. It makes her look like an airhead. So yeah, this was shaping up to be a titanically shitty night. Certainly not the kind of night she'd expect to meet the love of her life anyway.

About the time she finally managed to quit twisting her hair, she smelled cologne. A lot of it. Ben. He'd come after all. Thank God. She thought.

"Hey there sexy." He slid up next to the short hair. "Trouble at home."

"Jerry's jealous again?"

Ben shrugged and smiled even as he pulled her onto the dance floor being used mostly by tipsy crew. "Let's just say he hates when I leave him alone on Saturday nights. And I can't bring him here. Comprendre?"

She nodded. Her French sucked but she knew his problem. Ben dressed better than any guy she'd met and he lisped like a leaky tire valve. He was incredibly, epically, flamingly gay. And he was one of her best friends at work. Everyone knew he was gay but bringing his live-in boyfriend would be rubbing his lifestyle in people's faces more than he dared. The firm was too "évident," whatever the heck that meant.

For the next twenty minutes, Ben made her forget about being ignored by the rest of the office crowd. They danced and made funny sexy faces at each other and laughed. His gayness made everything feel safe. When one of the makeup artists finally tugged him away, the short hair let him go. Obviously, everybody liked Ben.

And that's when the short hair met the love of her life. Okay, technically she'd met her before since she worked at the office too. But that didn't count. It was different. That night, she met the real Rhian.

The girl who would steal her heart forever tapped her on the shoulder softly. "Looks like we're all out of boys. Wanna dance with me?"

Glaiza turned and stared. With her mouth open, like an airhead, she cursed at her thought. During the normal work week, Rhian, the miniature ice queen of marketing was already dressed to kill. That night, she was dressed for stampede. Her tiny black halter dress was silky, slinky and mind-numbingly sexy. It was a dress for someone brave and beautiful. She wore it like a second skin. It fell low up top, exposing just a hint of the inside curves of her milky breasts cradled in a delicately laced black bra. Her chest was partly hidden by her gorgeous long brown hair that fell all around her in long, loose deep white chocolate waves. And of course the shoes. It's always been the shoes. Rhian was a well-known shoe junky. Her three inch heels that night were sleek and black and made her already amazing legs look insane. The best part of Rhian that night? Her eyes. She chastised herself for missing them before. They weren't just brown. The were perfectly brown. The deepest, truest brown she'd ever seen. When she looked in them, they closed around her. It was like getting yanked into a northern rainforest where everything around her was really, really thick, tall and dark trunks and, well, brown.