Brat

She had been in a bad mood most of the evening. She swayed to the music at the wedding reception looking miserable as she sipped punch in her party dress, which was a somewhat pink poofy confection of an outfit. It didn’t exact match the sour look on her face.

I mingled, shook hands, kissed the bride on the cheek, all the time eying by bratty date. When I felt we’d stayed a respectable amount of time I grabbed her hand roughly and pulled her to the door.

In the cab she looked out the window, away from me, and pouted at her own reflexion.

At my apartment she got the milk out of the refrigerator and poured herself a glass. The door to the fridge didn’t quite close and as I walked in I eyed her and eyed the open door.

“Are you going to shut that?”

She rolled her eyes and turned away from me, sighing deeply.

When she put down her glass, I grabbed her by the wrist and spun her around. Then I pushed her against the wall.

“You’ve been a real bitch all night.”

She cut her eyes at me and shrugged.

“Whatever, why don’t I just go home then, you’re obviously not going to do anything about it,” she half mumbled.

When I smacked her across the face she looked at the floor for a minute then she smiled. When she looked up her eyes were wide her pout was gone. She bit her bottom lip and leaned back against the wall pushing out her chest.

I took a step back, weighing my options.

She turned slowly, walked to the refrigerator and closed it, bending over low as she did, pulling her dress up a little, showing me where her stockings stopped and her garters.

“Was I bad?”

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