Just a drabble, sort of related to my other Lorraine/George fic, He's Funny That Way. Reviews are really appreciated! It makes me want to write more and write better. :)

She just wants to be the perfect woman. Small, with an oval dish-face and a wide smile, she tries to make him fall in love. But no matter how much of her mother's perfume she dots behind her ears, no matter what shade of lipstick, he's never hers. George belongs to books and pens and bicycles.

Lorraine just wants a man to adore and be adored by. It's not that simple, she admits, as George pours glasses of milk to drink in front of the T.V. set. It's not easy, she knows, when her hand lays ignored on the embroidered sofa cushions between them and George laughs and laughs at reruns of The Lewis and Martin Show. She practices bedroom eyes alone in her bedroom, pouting for herself in front of the nightstand, above her hand mirror with the pink plastic mother-of-pearl backing and the matching brushes. She brushes her hair a hundred strokes on each side to make it shine. She thinks of how it really isn't easy to be loved as she brushes, brushes again and again until her hair runs smooth and warm between her fingertips.

George is happy and clueless with his milk mustaches and twinkling grey eyes. Lorraine stares deeply in his eyes and concentrates, willing him to love her, but the twinkle remains the same. Distant, like a star. Like something she can't have. Like something she will never hold.

Her friends give her advice. Wendy advises her to lose weight. Lorraine insists to their faces she likes her curves, but in front of the nightstand mirror, brushing her hair, she wonders if that is why George won't love her. She considers having her jaw wired shut so she can stop eating. But she keeps eating. Chocolates. Cheese on crackers. Strawberry milkshakes. She feels swollen with longing. If he would just touch her, it would make her pretty. Even plain girls like Wendy look beautiful in the arms of a boy.

She invites George to her house for dinner when her parents are out.

"Gee, isn't this swell?" George says, sitting at her father's place at the end of the table. She sits in her mothers chair. Scalloped potatoes, baked ham, green salad, rolls. The dough was left over from her mother, and the ham was already boiled…but she made the potatoes herself. George loads his plate with everything. "These rolls are great, Lorraine."

Notice the potatoes. She thinks. She stares down the table at him, imagining if this is what life would be like if they were married. Lorraine catches herself memorizing it and realizes she doesn't believe it will ever actually happen.

"Have you tried the potatoes?"

"Oh, I don't really like potatoes."

Lorraine feels a bubble of anger rise in her chest. Anger at herself, of course, not poor George. She never asked what he liked. It's her fault. Just like it's her mother's fault that she doesn't know what her husband likes. She feels a new sympathy for Mama Baines.

"Oh," is all she says.

Dinner ends. She couldn't eat a bite. This makes her a little happier, because it's a step toward her goal of losing weight, but she worries if George would think it was strange.

How could he, though? George doesn't notice anything.

They sit on the couch. She brings out milk. She's starting to hate milk. It reminds her of children and it makes her sad to see it frosting the edges of George's upper lip. All of George makes her sad. His cheekbones, the sailing architecture of his facial structure. His bright eyes, earnest expressions, nervous mouth. The freckles on his throat. The jut of his chin, and the way his eyes roll nervously like a horses. The flickering grey television lights play over his face. Why oh why didn't she ask what he liked. What a stupid wife she'd make. If she were ever married.

When they sit like this together, Lorraine feels as if she is being pulled sideways. She feels like her skin is crawling on its own to touch his, leaving her raw and exposed, a tug of the longing in her guts.

"George…" she whispers.

She is crying suddenly. George turns to look at her, confusion rippling across his sweet features, and she knows how ugly she must look. The hot tears course down her face. A faceful of powder she's too young for.

"Lorraine? Lorraine, what's wrong?"

He doesn't know. And if she doesn't tell him now, he never will.

She imagines telling him. Telling him how sad it makes her to know they'll never be married, that she hates milk and television, she hates bicycles, she's fat and she hates herself…all her hateful, petty secrets.

And she doesn't tell him anything, just bites her lip as the fat, hot tears slide down her face.

George unexpectedly stops the flow of misery by wrapping his arms around her. She finds her face pressed against his chest. Inside, his heart beats quickly, a rabbit thumping an alarm. She buries her face in the warm fabric of his shirt.

"It's all right, there, there," he whispers awkwardly. That's what he is, Lorraine suddenly sees. He's just an awkward boy.

"I'm fine, I'm sorry George…"

"It must be awfully hard being a girl." He says sympathetically.

"It's not being a girl that's hard." She says bitterly. "It's being in love."

"How is that hard?"

"Being in love with someone who doesn't love you back."

George releases his grip on her and sits back on his side of the couch. The Colgate Comedy Hour comes back on, and in the silver light she watches his lips tighten and his almost nonexistent brows knit slightly across his smooth forehead. Lorraine feels awful. She hadn't meant to say anything. Now look who's sad.

"Who…who are you in love with?"

He looks at her sideways. The old McFly hunch, the furtive, apologetic look is back. She realized how confident he had seemed only moments before.

"Why, you, George. I'm in love with you." She says. Obviously.

"You think I don't love you back? Oh, Lorraine, don't you remember? The soda shop, right before Marty tripped Biff?"

"You said I was your density. You didn't say you loved me." Lorraine says, arguing and not knowing why. She can't believe this conversation is even happening.

"Yes, I'm your density. I know I'm not very romantic, like them," he points to the television screen, at Lucy and Ricky. "But I meant it when I said that."

"You mean destiny?"

"Density, Lorraine."

Their eyes meet. The tears don't blur her vision so badly that she doesn't see his eyes have changed. They're warm, and grey-blue. It's such a pretty colour, she thinks. She suddenly understands what he means. The tug of longing, deep in her guts, the tug that drives her crazy with need, it's density. An irresistible force drawing her into George. Her skin creeping, it's density. It's destiny.

Lorraine doesn't feel fat anymore. She feels beautiful.

"So you do love me?" she says meekly.

"Until the stars die." He replies huskily, his eyes sparkling and that eager look slowly lighting up his face from within. Oh, George and his ridiculous outer space obsession. Oh, Lorraine and her ridiculous melancholy.

Lorraine kisses him deeply, and he doesn't pull away when the ad break is over and the cold television light illuminates his flickering slate eyes. His hand finds hers on the seat cushion between them.