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Are you kidding? You're the most beautiful woman in most rooms.

Sitting awkwardly upon the counter of the overly bright bathroom, knees dipping dangerously into the porcelain sink, Monica stares forlornly into the mirror. Bringing her face as close to the glass as her vision will allow she peers disapprovingly at her reflection. Was that a crow's foot? She wonders, noticing the just visible lines at the side of her eye. Already?

She pauses briefly from her intense self-scrutiny to take a long draw of her cocktail through the tiny straw provided by the hotel bartender who'd seemed just a tad too aware of the less than celebratory nature of her drinking. So much so, that she'd elected to take her latest drink back to her hotel room rather than remain drinking solo at the bar. A move she's starting to regret as the slurping sounds coming from the aforementioned straw remind her that she's just finished her third cocktail.

Monica speculates the drinks must be watered down, as she's not nearly as drunk as she'd like to be. Despite her attempts to down as much alcohol in as little time as humanly possible her reflection still stares back at her, not even remotely blurry and just as obviously showing the ravages of time as before.

Aging sucks, she thinks sadly climbing down from her perch atop the counter and leaving the bathroom to flop miserably onto the meticulously made hotel bed. Aging was terrible, the most terrible thing really. Was this how the rest of her life was going to go? Watching helplessly as her looks started to deteriorate, everyday realizing that she was just a little bit less attractive then the day before. Until finally, boom, one morning she'd wake up and that would be that, any hope of being desirable gone. Monica had spent most of her teen years feeling unattractive due to her weight issues and now after a short reprieve was she really doomed to a future of repulsiveness? The thought leaves her feeling physically pained.

And it isn't just the normal march of time she has to contend with. Apparently, she's showing signs of accelerated aging. She still can't believe that horrible man had thought she was Ross' mother! She was Ross' little sister for heaven's sake! And she can't believe that Ross is getting married again. For a second time! Before she's even come close to making it down the aisle. She twists her fingers mindlessly around her naked ring finger. The truth is that this awful reality of aging, the relentless trickle of sand through the hourglass leaving its marks at the corners of her eyes and the slow inevitable sag of her flesh from the persistent tug of gravity, all of it would be bearable if she could just have someone to grow old with.

To think she had once naively cherished the idea of growing old. Of course in these imaginings she'd always pictured two sets of wrinkled hands gently clasped together. There's no shame in aging, not really. It's the loneliness, the sense of running out of time, that's eating at her, closing up her throat and making it difficult to breathe. If she can't find someone to love her now, in her prime, what are the chances someone is going to choose her later as she begins her undignified march to old age? It's all so unfair.

You know what I need? She thinks willing herself upright on the bed despite the overwhelming desire to get under the covers and hide. I need more alcohol. With this edifying thought she grabs her purse from the dresser and with a quick check to me sure it contains her room card, she heads to the elevators with a newfound determination to drink away her worries, judgmental bartender and diluted drinks be damned.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Mustering up as much dignity as she can, Monica scribbles her room number on the tab the bartender lays before her, a raised eyebrow his only acknowledgement that he remembers her from before. She forgoes the straw (drinking from them caused wrinkles, no?) and downs half the tumbler in a single gulp. Her cheeks flush brightly as the alcohol hits her system, or maybe it's just the anticipation of the alcohol at this point, and she sits a little straighter on her stool perusing the hotel bar. She doesn't do much drinking in hotels but she thinks she can pick out who's who amongst her fellow patrons. There's a bridal party seated on couches in the lounge area, sipping champagne and chatting cheerfully in their matching rose colored gowns. They look young and happy and Monica hates them instantly. Then there's an older woman seated alone nursing a cocktail and looking for all the world like she'd rather be anywhere else. Monica takes in the woman's naked ring finger and messy bun of once dark hair accentuated by wisps of fly away grays. When the woman's watery blue eyes scan the room and meet hers, Monica turns away quickly in embarrassment. The woman's eerie resemblance to the future spinster version of herself makes Monica hate her as well.

Next she turns her attention to what is clearly a contingent of business men milling up at the bar, still donning their suit jackets and showing a familiarity with the staff that suggests a semi-regular patronship. One or two of them shoot her covert glances out of the sides of their eyes that cause a small thrill to shoot through her. None of them are particularly her type but it's been awhile since she's been on the receiving end of that sort of look and she'd forgotten how gratifying it could be. She goes from despondent to hopeful in an instant. Maybe she'll die alone one day, but that doesn't mean she needs to be alone tonight.

She continues to scan the area for potential hook-ups, but is coming up empty. She isn't even being all that picky, but it must really not be her night as the aging businessmen and surly barkeeper seem to be the only men around. What would Joey do in this situation? She tries to channel her most promiscuous friend in an attempt to end this miserable evening in somebody's bed. Well he'd probably charm his way into someone's room and then take off all his clothes while they fixed him lemonade, she thinks with a laugh remembering her own first introduction to Joey Tribbiani. As outlandish as he'd been that afternoon she has to admit he'd looked pretty good. And in his defense she might have been the only woman in New York to ever pass on his unconventional approach to propositioning. That's what she needs tonight. She needs to find a Joey. Someone with absolutely no baggage and no expectations beyond a quick roll in the hay. But where in the world would she find this person? It's not like they go around wearing badges, she thinks in frustration.

She's just motioned to the bartender for another round when it strikes her. She doesn't need to find a Joey here in London. The man himself is here. What's more, she knows exactly where to find him. Hastily she signs for her drink and for the second time that night grabs it to go, rushing towards the elevators. Monica is not usually one for impulsivity but tonight feels different. She needs this. Well maybe not this, but she needs something. Something has been missing in her life now for months and while being with Joey may not be the best idea at least it will be something.

She arrives at Joey's room and tries to preemptively avoid any second thoughts by taking a long draw of her cocktail while pounding on the door. It swings open to reveal a pajama-clad Chandler and Monica's mood goes from excited to despondent in an instant as he informs her that Joey's already run off to hook up with the other, probably younger, bridesmaid. Just like that, the weight of all her self-doubt comes to rest once more upon her shoulders and she doesn't even try to hide her misery from Chandler.

"You're not still upset about what that guy told you, are you?"

"Wouldn't you be?" She asks in a huff. She'd expect Chandler of all people to understand her wallowing.

"Look. It's been a really emotional time, you know? And you've had a lot to drink. And you just gottta let that go. Okay? I mean you were the most beautiful woman in the room tonight."

"Really?" His words, spoken so effortlessly and honestly, throw the whole self-image she's been crafting for herself all evening into confusion. Didn't he see the crow's feet? The way her skin had begun to hang from her collarbones?

For a moment she sees herself the way he claims to see her: beautiful, valued, loved. It doesn't just transform her despair into happiness, but rather amplifies it as well so that emotion swells inside of her literally threatening to spill out. For the briefest of seconds she wonders what it would be like to kiss him right now.

"Are you kidding? You're the most beautiful woman in most rooms."

And like a string that's been holding her back has been cut, she throws herself against him and kisses him with all the passion she can muster. Though she can sense his shock he kisses her back almost immediately, matching her intensity.

It should feel wrong, or weird at the very least. But it doesn't feel weird at all. It feels like the most natural thing in the world and so, so right. Monica's shouldn't be surprised. After all, she's been wondering what if for years.