She's got it. I don't. She's way out of my league. It's as simple as that, right?

Wrong.

Prada bags and Manolo Blahnik shoes mean shit to me. I know what they are, I know what they cost, I know she'll drive two hours to L.A. to spend six more in the malls just to come back wearing skirts slit to her thigh and tops that demand attention, soft silky fabrics over soft silky skin. One smug bitchy smile says she knows who's looking. She smirks at me when she catches my eyes drifting. She scrapes perfectly manicured nails over cashmere, lace, nylon, all stomach and thighs and breasts. Look what I'm touching. Look what you'll never get near. I'm sweat and leather and sex, and I don't have what she has, and I'm never having her. That's what she thinks.

Wrong again.

She can accessorize, she's a fucking Barbie, complete with Ken dolls hanging on her every word, sneering behind her back, grabbing their crotches, sniggering. She's an easy lay, everyone in the senior class knows that, just ask the swim team, just ask that loser Harris. She's a bitch but she sucks cock like a dream.

Three strikes you're out. Easy is the last thing she is, and I'd never treat her like she was. I know she's never had that pouty mouth around anything worse than a lollipop. I've caught her staring as often as she's caught me, and I figure I'll be finding out soon enough what she wears underneath her perfect clothes. She'll dare me and I'll show her I'm better than anything she's ever known.

Nothing but the best for Cordelia Chase.

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November 12, 2004