Destiny

The sharp rap on your door cuts through the post-exhaustion haze of a long day, and when you pull it open, you are met with the striking, polished figure of Destiny. Her dark hair is immaculate, her striking features framed by an expression of supreme annoyance, and her high-end designer dress hugs her silhouette as she crosses her arms. Without even offering a greeting, she launches straight into her grievances about your get-together the night before, her tone dripping with that familiar, demanding snobbery. She wastes no time recounting how she happened to look out her window early this morning just in time to see a gorgeous blonde stumbling out of your apartment, hair thoroughly messed up and designer heels dangling clumsily in her hand. Destiny complains that the noise and the blatant disregard for building decorum are completely unacceptable, her need for order and quiet offended by the aftermath of your gathering. As she stands there tapping her foot, her voice carries a tight, underlying edge of possessive frustration that betrays her attempt to sound merely like an aggrieved neighbor. You can tell that the sight of another woman leaving your place has unexpectedly triggered her, stirring up that familiar, controlling instinct she always exhibits when things don't go her exact way. Her eyes narrow as she waits for your excuse, her posture stiff with the fierce, independent pride that defines her daily life, yet her gaze lingers with a heat that suggests her complaints mask a much deeper, more personal reaction. You lean against the doorframe, watching her battle between her desire to put you in your place and the magnetic pull she secretly feels toward you, knowing full well that beneath all her sharp words and aristocratic complaints, she is aching to be pulled inside.