by Monet Renae

Created on: June 03, 2009

Chpt.I

I had braced myself for what was to come next.

Every time there's a gathering of friends he tells the same old story. I can't imagine what he gets out of regaling the tale. Seriously, it's nothing like he makes it out to be. To hear him tell it, he is Rhett Butler and I'm Scarlett O' Hara-not. Though admittedly, we are in Marietta, Georgia. That is where the similarity ends. This is not the 1860's and I am not a merciless flirt nor am I conniving. Plus I'd like to think I can find my own man thank you.

It is not that long a drive from Marietta to Atlanta. And on many occasions I'd visited the Peachtree Street home in which the setting for Gone with the Wind takes place. Often times wishing I could morph into the era if for nothing else but to feel as special as Scarlett or at least as dramatic.

Speaking of drama, I was waiting for the shoe to drop on another embarrassing moment.

If you can't tell, I consider myself a wallflower. And it is not because I am unattractive, I am. I'm a brunette and hazel-eyed and twenty-seven with long legs and an ample bosom and narrowed waistline. I look good this evening in my favorite long black pencil skirt, floral print blouse and black boots.

However, something's not right.

My girlfriends think I'm crazy.

Either way, the result is I wish I was still single. So I live through them.

And there he sits, about to open his mouth and insert foot-again.

I knew immediately what was coming. He vice gripped my arm and yanked me down in the loveseat nearly on top of him. Everyone stared. I felt my face flush, and I just knew.

I could have buried myself at the moment, and in fact I did close my eyes and shake my head (wishing). Camille, my best friend, looked as mortified as I must have. The pity welling in her eyes made the inevitable that much more certain to occur. I half covered my face, closed my eyes and sunk deeper into his lap with no escape.

He was too conversational. I had given him the eye before he could really get started but I guess the alcohol increased his affectionate nature. All of a sudden he was snuggling me in true dog like-fashion with his forehead and cheek, while reeking of alcohol and smiling. He'd promised not to humiliate me this time. And so it began.

Did I ever tell you

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