Summary: Drabble about Mrs. Cope and her infatuation with Edward Cullen, including Edward's ultimate response to her lustful thoughts.
Rating: M-rated for sexual daydreams
Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight or any of its characters. No copyright infringement intended.
Title: Dear Shelly
High school students are always so melodramatic. Day in and day out, class schedules and hall passes and notes to the nurse. And all they do is whine at me.
Of course, Edward Cullen could whine at me all he wanted and I wouldn't care. But instead he whispers, low and velvet words, and I start thinking things that a grown woman, a Christian woman, a married woman—things that such a person should never consider at all.
Things like, is it humanly possible that someone that gorgeous is still a virgin? I don't see him with any of the girls. Ever. But either way, the thought is enticing.
Let's say, first scenario. We could sneak off to the copyroom. So many questions to ask. Is all of his hair golden-red? Is all of his skin that unbelievably pale, even on his… ummm, dingle-dangle? But hopefully, my mouth would be full of his lovely private parts, while he would be babbling something like "Yes, Yes, Yes!" and pulling at my hair.
Then again, what if Edward Cullen is some kind of secret sex god and has been keeping it all on the down-low? I do could live with that too. Invite him over for some XXX-Box, if you know what I mean. And I hear those Volvos have fully reclining seats. Bowm-chicka-bowm-bowm.
Just about then, lost in daydreams I really shouldn't be having in the first place, he is there. Edward-freaking-Cullen is there, leaning over the counter, smiling at me.
"Mrs. Cope?" he purrs and I gurgle a response. "I was wondering if I could move from my biology class to a senior level science? Physics, perhaps?"
The way he says the word "biology" makes my mind go wild with pornographic thoughts and I start chanting the same thing I always do when confronted with the full brunt of Edward Cullen's charm: Too young. Too young. Too young.
Strangest thing happens next, however. Edward is oozing sweet honey and whipped cream at me when he suddenly tenses up like he is under attack. The look in his eyes scares me as the irises flicker from butterscotch to pitch black. Is he wearing some kind of expensive contacts or something? Those Cullens have money to burn. Must be some new trend from Seattle, I figure.
Turns out, Bella Swan has walked into the room and Edward dashes out to avoid her. I sigh and focus on the girl who somehow has chased away the best part of my day.
Years later, as I am vegetating alone in a nursing home, he sends me a letter:
"Dear Shelly," it reads. "I wanted you to hear this from me. You were right. I wasn't 17. I was much older, working undercover for the feds. All very top secret. But I thought you should know that it wasn't your fault I never hit on you. Because you see, I have always preferred brunettes. Sincerely, Edward Cullen."