Guilty Addiction
It starts with a daydream, as it often does. You're just hanging out, when she shares her fruit salad, placing a grape inside your mouth as you grip your script. It's the briefest of connections; her fingers against your lips. But it's enough. The implied intimacy racing through your mind. Another possible scenario; fruit, a bedroom, a blindfold.. Wait.. What?
Then it’s the touching. The flutter of fingers against your neck, a warmth that lingers long after they move on. The touching comes with the usual companions - the looking, the watching.. Seeing the beginning of a smirk. Noticing the crinkle beneath her eyes when she laughs. Staring, when she jokes about on set - her chocolate globes cutting across a crowded space to connect solely with your own.
Then the kissing. Strictly professional, of course. Acting, it’s called. So nobody thinks anything more when your hand lands softly on her cheek, caressing. Who cares that it wasn’t in the script? Honestly, who doesn’t improvise just a little?
The lying. The pretend nerves. The request that you practise just a little more because, hey, you’re a perfectionist and you don’t think that kiss by the bench is quite as real as it could be. The stumbling of choreography to ensure you need just one more take.. Really Shonda, you think it works enough? Perhaps if I put my hands here..? Should we try..?
It’s only when filming breaks for the season that you recognise it. The anxiety. The thought of not seeing her every day. And you recognise your own desperation as you hug her goodbye, make promises of shopping and coffee meets. People wonder why you’re a workaholic? Her. Must be nice having a break from work? You only see it as a break from your new addiction.
Your husband’s lips on yours, the careless graze of stubble. All you taste is guilt. It’s so strong. And you’re not heartless, you’re really not.
But the addiction is stronger.