1950s

You thought that you and Aubrey were just really, really good friends. Good friends that hugged each other a little too long. Good friends that laughed together in a slightly giddy way.

But your mind switched last night.

You two had just finished a gig with the band in Soho, London. Aubrey was flawless, as usual — clearly all her free time had been spent at the piano practicing her piece. But she wasn’t all there, you could tell. Her eyes were far, her words were brief.

And then she finally told you, coupled with tears that she hadn’t shown a soul — Angry, hurting tears.

Her fiancé had left her after a… conflict. A strange conflict. From what you could gather, her fiancé was tired of her non-affectionate attitude and distant behaviour. Yet, why was she upset if she didn’t love him? Why was she crying? Confusion? Exhaustion, maybe?

But then it happened. Four bottles of wine, a blurry sway of music and closeness, darkness and sheets, clothes stripped and lips connected. What you two did to each other was a little sloppy, sure, but it was real. It was amazing. Wrong, but amazing.

And then you awoke.

Sore thighs, a sick gut, and a thumping headache later, you awoke from the deserted bed and made your way to the small kitchen of the hotel room. Things were all coming at you at once as you sipped back some water, the realisation of what you did — and who you did — sounding alarms in your mind.

And then, there she was.

Her smile was soft and tired as she made her way out of the bathroom, her hair damp and her dressing gown loose. She came up to you, her arms slipping around your waist in a gentle embrace from behind, seemingly acting as though what you two did was anything but shocking.

Yikes. If your mother saw you now, she’d most likely faint.

You were seeing a side of her you never thought existed. Had she always felt this way about you? Was this… insane?