Strange little girls
There was no more Voldemort. Bye, bye big bad.
Hermione supposed it was kind of funny that she hadn't really thought
about what she would do after the war - everyone seemed to imagine that she would settle down and marry Ron.
That always made her laugh; but then came the inevitable:
"What are you going to do now then?"
Run. Hide. Scream.
Be anywhere but here.
Here with it's unpleasant expectations and inquisitions flying everywhere.
She; Hermione Granger, was going to have a holiday somewhere in the sun.
She'd always thought she'd come here with a lover y'know?
And they'd sip coffee in a quaint little outside cafe and stare into each
others sunglassed eyes.
But back to reality and she; Buffy Summers, was sitting pretty in an outside cafe sipping a double espresso all alone.
And it was nicer than you might of thought daydreaming the days away; making plans and wasting time - thinking about herself constantly and never having to feel bad about it.
Nice. But not ultimately satisfying y'know?
She wasn't exactly sure how Paris had been where she'd ended up. She'd envisioned the sun kissing her skin with some, Camus, Pinter and Plath (no trashy paperbacks for this little lady.)
But at least Paris was full of culture she noted and as she sipped at her long vodka in the middle of the afternoon.
At least Paris asked nothing of her - no responsibilities, no-one to bother her as she read or to look at her as though she'd grown a third eye when she started drinking at two in the afternoon.
Or when she started checking out the pretty blonde who had just walked into the bar.
Buffy was bored, bored, bored.
She had forgotten how boring nice could be.
So she'd tangled her sunglasses in her sweat-drenched hair and sauntered into a bar.
And it was only two in the afternoon.
She was bad, bad to the bone.