Work Text:
You order a martini to the bartender.
You don't like the taste of that drink that much, you never did, when you usually drink it you go for vodka.
She's the one who always has a martini in her hand during dinners and galas. You think maybe she has one in her hand right now, at her house watching tv on the couch before going to bed.
But you hope it is not so. You want her to walk through the bar door and sit next to you. That's why you came to this place, that's why you ordered this drink. A bar she sometimes goes to after work, and the taste that's always in her mouth.
It’s pathetic, you've always been a little pervert, but there was a time you weren’t some kind of romantic creep, your desire for this feels more demeaning than any of your fetishes, wanting a person this much seems repulsive. The magnitude of your longing for her disgusts you.
When you masturbate you usually think of her humiliating you, but sometimes later you think of her putting her hand on your head and telling you that you're not complete shit, that there's still time to be better, that you didn't fuck up everything. That you can still be good, that you can still be loved.
You finish your martini. She doesn't show up at the door.
You ask the bartender for one more.