If you don't have the time to read, you don't have the time or the tools to write - Stephen King, On Writing, p. 147
She elbowed her way out of the stage door and through the ubiquitous crowd of slavering fans, taking up her accustomed waiting spot at the corner of the street. His laughter cut through the reverential murmuring of his adoring worshippers who were feeding his already inflated ego and she knew he’d be on a high when they left for home, wanting her to take up where they had left off. One of these days she would tell him exactly what she thought. It seemed almost inevitable.
She was accustomed to living in his shadow. It was only natural that he drew attention with his good looks, fantastic voice and ready charm. She accepted it but the burden of being the one he came home to was something none of those fans would ever know or understand. There came a point when you simply couldn’t stand by and watch as others tried to take possession of someone who was not theirs to own. As she watched him accepting gifts and depositing endless kisses on over-powdered cheeks she came to a decision.
She walked back, shoved her way through the crowd of giggling girls and wobbling women and stuck a proprietorial arm about his waist.
“You will excuse us. Amongst the many things you don’t know about my partner is the fact that he gets extremely turned on by all this adulation. Unfortunately for you, it is me who will benefit from this fact. I am grateful for your efforts.”
She gave the silent crowd of gaping mouths a lascivious wink and led him away quickly before her laughter could explode and come back to haunt them.