Here's to You, Mrs. Robinson

RATED: T for Sex and swearing

A/N: I hope Jessah doesn't kill me for writing this. I really do.

DISCLAIMER: I AM Mrs. Robinson.

Every man, woman, and teenager on Lapart street was being silently tortured under Mrs. Isabella Cullen's spell. It had been three years ago that the fresh-faced woman, darkly seductive and completely unattainable, waltzed into the suburbs with her husband. For a few weeks, she had simply been another neighbor- but it didn't take long for her to become the embodiment of desire for the male populace of Lapart.

As for the women, well, they envied and hated Mrs. Cullen like a professional sport. For stealing the affections of their husbands. For being in the prayers of their teenage sons. For representing everything they weren't.

And in her dark green house, beyond her immaculate lawn and past the Dartmouth Deploma, Mrs. Cullen would sit sadly. The sound of Harry Whitaker mowing his yard in the background would keep her company, as well as the man in question.

"Is your husband gone again, Mrs. Cullen?" He would ask, appearing at her door soaked in sweat and smelling like freshly-mowed grass. Heat wafted off of him enticingly, evaporating from her frigid body like mist.

"Just like he is every afternoon." Replied Bella, smiling amiably. "And I suppose you're here for some lemonade?"

"Rachel never could make it quite like you, Mrs. Cullen." Laughed Harry, strolling into her open door. She would close it behind them and not open it until twenty minutes before Edward got home, when it was absolutely necessary for her to do so.

He was a lawyer now, getting home late when he came home at all. While Bella substituted at the local school, most of her days were spent observing her neighbors with a keen eye. Harry, who was only home on Thurdays. His son Miles, the paperboy, who would rather accept a kiss on the cheek from her than thirty cents.

Miles would tap his cheek playfully and smile, rosy fifteen- year-old cheeks flushing as she leaned in and pecked him on the cheek. Sometimes she would linger for longer than necessary, by no fault of her own, rather the folly of her lingering need for human contact.

And so Mrs. Isabella Cullen was even more tortured under the spell of the residents of Lambart street then they would ever know. Observing the human condition with a sad, weather eye and wistful heart.

She would not wish to be human again. She would not.

But she did. In the dark. Laying awake, listening to silence, folding herself in the comforters of her prop-bed to feel real again. Kissing Edward, loving him, giving her heart to him- all that was still easy, still so fresh and new. It was giving him eternity that made her heart twist and constrict, wishing to be pounding again.


"God bless you, Mrs. Cullen." Harry gasps, capturing her cold lips with his heated ones, nipping a line down her stone neckline. "You're like a fucking statue."

"Childhood condition." Bella replies nonchalantly, tangling her fingers in his hair as he comes back up to kiss her again. She absorbs the warmth like a sponge, almost laughing in joy at the human feeling that pumps through her veins and makes her whole again. "Don't let it bother you."

"Oh, I won't." He mumbles against her lips, shoving her against the mattress.

Harry still loves his wife. Bella still loves her Edward. They make this abundantly clear, even tangled in bedsheets, boffing or screwing or fucking or whatever you want to call it. She can't help it, liking it in a disgusting masochistic sort of way- I don't want this Her mind screams, but every cold, dead cell in her body rallies the opposite.

She can taste humanity on the tip of her tongue moving with Harry, making her want to scream with frustration. She shouldn't want this. She won't want this.

"What made you so cold, Mrs. Cullen?" Harry asks, pulling on his pants and turning briefly to regard her. She still lies quietly amongst the sheets, soaking in her own infidelity.

"My husband." Bella replies without thinking, not looking up for his reaction.

"That's too bad." And then he leaves, shutting the door quietly behind him.

As soon as he's out the front threshold, she picks up a book from the shelf to read and wait for Edward. He loves it to see her there when he gets home, anticipating his return.

Bella thinks about this for a moment before putting the book back. A walk would be much better, she decides, exiting the house and knowing full well she won't be home in time to catch Edward.

She's fine with that.