WILHELMINA

It hadn't begun like this. Of course, it had always been a "sex thing," but at least in the beginning they had been civil; empathetic to each other's plight, understanding that they both sought to fulfill a primal and necessary need. However, as their rendezvous become longer and more frequent (as per her request), Wilhelmina's attitude had changed; she became an even bigger bitch (if that was even possible). What Daniel did not understand, and what Wilhelmina was loathe to admit, was that the Queen Bitch routine was just an act, a defense mechanism. Sometime during the last few months she had grown to love, no, that wasn't the word, need Daniel. She hated herself for it. She hated him for it. But there was nothing she could do. Subsequently, she found herself calling him more often; found herself filled with near-murderous rage when he made her wait (because nobody made Wilhelmina Slater wait!); and found that when he showed up with cheap Cover Girl lipstick on his collar she went well out of her way to remind him that she was all the woman he would ever need. Most of all she hated the fact that when they were together she had a tendency to loose her cool, become a bit unhinged. No other man had ever made her feel this way. Thank God, Daniel was always too drunk (or right now too stoned) to notice. Admittedly, there was something in his cavalier demeanor that drew her to him. It was the going-for-broke self-destruction, the "I'm too dead inside to really give a shit" attitude that made her weak at the knees. Here was somebody suffering tremendously, and, for once, she wasn't the cause of it. She didn't know whether to comfort him or turn the knife in his heart a little to left; but for now, she would settle for fucking him into oblivion.

DANIEL

Daniel knew it too; knew that he was one more whiskey on the rocks, one more anonymous fuck away from being completely hollow. That's what made his relationship with Wilhelmina so refreshing. For the first time in months he knew the last name (hell, the first name!) of the woman lying next to him in bed. But what was more important, was that when he was with her he felt something. It felt good to be reminded that he was human, that he could feel things, and, if his instincts were correct, that someone could feel something for him too. Of course there was Betty, but that was different. He knew that her feelings for him could never be more than platonic. Even if they were, he didn't deserve to be loved by someone as idealistic and untainted as her. Although he wasn't entirely sure of Wilhelmina's motives (and didn't particularly care) all that mattered was that she cared for him, or at least he thought she did. He tried to provoke her in an effort to tease out how she felt. He acted blasé when she called, showed up forty-five minutes late, and made out with other women before catching a taxi to her apartment (they always met at her place, Wilhelmina didn't like leaving her territory). After pulling one of his "stunts," she always put in a bit of extra effort; clamp her muscles a little tighter, pull him in a little deeper, bite down a little harder. The last time she'd drawn blood. After that, Daniel made it a habit of being prompt. He was surprised that he could actually make her jealous, but he couldn't have hope for anything better; she did care. He knew that she would never admit it, but just the knowledge was good enough for him. He didn't feel quite so alone anymore.

LOVE IS A BATTLEFIELD

You're not entirely sure that you've heard her correctly. You're still a little tipsy from the whiskey sours you were knocking back just hours earlier and slightly light-headed from the headboard-pounding, concussion-inducing sex you've just had. You cock your head to the side, "Excuse me." The expression on her face betrays no emotion. No wonder people called her the "Ice Queen."

"I said, 'Thank you. You may leave."

Her voice is matter-of-fact and pisses you off. "What?"

"You really are as dense as they say. Leave. Get out."

She's standing there in a white dressing gown that leaves little to the imagination, her right hand rests of her hip, and if you weren't so damn angry you'd be turned on. "Fuck you," you say rising from the bed, searching in vain for the clothes that had been so hastily discarded earlier.

"You did," she says smugly, "and now it's over."

You've found you're boxers, incidentally, the ones Betty recovered on her hunt for your missing watch, and are now trying to locate your other missing articles of clothing. You hear this and ignore her, but she still continues.

"Don't have any illusions about what this is or who you are to me," she says, eyes narrowed, defenses up.

"Then why don't you tell me," you retort.

"Nothing and no one. You're just another employee; only they have enough sense to respect me and you don't get a salary for the services you so skillfully provide."

The last remaining bit of light behind your eyes goes dim and the expression on your face says it all. You know that she doesn't love you-you would never ask her to-but still, the crushing feeling of your loneliness rushing back makes you feel sick inside. You double-over; for a moment you think that you might throw up. Instead, you look up, your eyes connect with hers and you say…

"You think those people respect you? If they respected you, don't you think they would have made you editor-in-chief over me? They hate you Wilhelmina! Everybody hates you! You know it and you can't look in the mirror without seeing the tiny little wrinkles and imperfections it leaves on your face. Well, I've got news for you sweetheart, your Botox injections and collagen implants won't help you cheat death. You're still going to die old and alone. You're a monster and I was only fucking you because being with someone as heartless as you made me feel a little less empty in comparison."

You thought you saw her flinch but you're still too hung-over and nauseous to tell. She pauses for a heartbeat and then slaps you hard across the face. It stings and probably deserve it. When she raises her hand to slap you again you seize her wrist. You look into her eyes and there's something there, beyond the pure, unadulterated hate…sadness. You know it well enough to identify even the tiniest sliver.

"Get out," she says, defeated.

You should feel elated, triumphant in your victory, but instead you apologize, and you mean it. You let go of her wrist and finish collecting your things.

"Daniel, please, don't leave," she whispers.

You hesitate. This could be your last opportunity to escape her clutches, but something in the way her voice quivers and the way she breathes your name makes you stay. It wasn't the way you'd imagined it happening, but every relationship has to begin somewhere.