Want Your Bad Romance

I suddenly grabbed his jacket and yanked him to me, his lips crashing down on mine. He tasted like French cigarettes and smelled like men's body wash – somewhere between minty and herbal. I had taken charge and kissed him, but I felt my control slipping. The hand that had captured his lapel was slackening, my knees and spine weakening. In a matter of seconds, I would be putty in his hands. I could feel one of his hands at my back. And he wasn't pulling away.

~

I first met Johnny Depp through a friend of a friend of a friend or something – that seemed like the story of my life. I always knew someone slightly more important than me, who knew someone more important, who knew someone…

I was invited to a movie premiere by a friend. It was a small happening, as such things go, but Johnny had gone all the same. He had a sort of reputation for unusuality. Most of the night was a blur, the flashing camera lights, the limos, the celebrities. The champagne, the caviar - who knew what served, said, or drunk? I usually only went for the movies and to see real friends. Amy Adams, for instance. We'd grown up together, and she had invited me that night, in fact. And she was by my side when I met Johnny Depp.

I must admit, I was a fan. I forgot the friend of a friend of a friend's name when he stuck his hand out and said, "Hello," in that deep, unique accent of his. My heart beat faster when I slipped my hand into his and I hoped what I said was intelligible. His eyes were amazingly deep and dark, and although he wasn’t mountainously tall, he exuded quite a presence.

And then he took his hand back and placed it around another woman's shoulders and said, "This is my girlfriend, Vanessa." She held her own and out and I shook it, with a strange feeling that I tried to conceal.

"It's nice to meet both of you," I said, then followed Amy to our seats.