Game Changer

"Get In Loser, We're Going Shopping"

XXX

                The Shell Annual Christmas Charity Ball was the most extravagant parties of the year. Heads of departments, such as myself got invited to these, probably because we were the only ones that could afford the $250 ticket. We are invited, yes, but we are obliged to go, we have to choice. It is also recommended that we have a date. (The date needed their own ticket by the way.) All in the name for charity, they would say as we would sip our expensive champagne.  Usually I’d tag along with my friends and their dates, they didn’t mind and it was fun, we laughed and joked more and more as the liquor flowed freely. It felt like an extravagant version of Senior Prom, we’d get our makeup, nails and hair professional done. Although the food, venue and DJ were always the same we needed a new gown every year.

I actually dragged Tom along for my pursuit of a new dress, and he was happy to help. He had fun trying on accessories while I tried on dresses.

“With those lovely blonde locks, Hiddleston, I’d recommend a birdcage,” I said while I waited for my salesclerk.

“And with these black tresses, I’d recommend this,” he teases and puts a small silver tiara in my hair. It was heavy; maybe some of the jewels on it were real.

“I haven’t worn a crown since my seventh-birthday party,” I smirk and place the tiara in his hair. I practically disappear in his mess of curls. “Just don’t wear the crown when you jog past the Buckingham Palace, the gaurds might actually move and chase after you. Oi! Halt! Halt thy curly haired one! Reterneth the Queen’s Crown!”

He glares at me and my terrible British mocking. I apologize, I’m French, and we shouldn’t exactly get along. “We don’t speak Shakespearian in London,” he says coolly, crossing his arms over his chest.

It’s adorable when he tries to act tough. I poke him in the chest and look up into his eyes. “You speak in Shakespearian, Hiddleston,”

That wasn’t the apology he was waiting for. “Oh Charlene,” he says in his Loki voice. “You’ve just crossed the line,”

This was fun, and he was a good actor. He didn’t break character as he sized me up and sneered down at me. “Fight me,” I challenge, shoving him into the near by wall.

“Oh, I know just how to make you suffer,” he doesn’t break his intense gaze as he throws his arms around me and nearly suffocates me into a bear hug. NO! No no no no no, he just popped my personal bubble. This is worse than a normal hug…I don’t even like normal hugs.

“Hiddleston! HIDDLESTON!” my muffled cries escape between his arms to no avail. My arms are stuck at my side, failing around helplessly.

“Muhahahaha,” he cracks manically in my ear. “I never knew revenge could smell so sweet,”

“Well you’re cologne is making me gag!” I snap, but it sounds more along the likes of “Fell fou’re cofogne if makfing me gaf!”

He suddenly releases me and side steps away, shoving his hands in his pocket, looking like a school boy who got caught red-handed. The saleswoman coughs uncomfortably and leads me a change room and begins my fitting. I turn back to see Tom hooting with a soundless laughter at my glare, making me even more annoyed, he’s such a…singe-a monkey. His laughter doesn’t cease when I step out into the light in one of the saleswoman’s first choices: a poufy red dress with a constricting corset. I wobble over to Tom, whose recording all of this, and snatch his phone away from him and throw it into a bin of rejected dresses.