Bittersweet

He thrust his hands deep into his front jeans pocket with a disgruntled growl. Already, he felt the warm  stickiness spreading over his thigh and groin. Wriggling his fingers into the hole in corner of the jeans pocket, he encountered the moist fabric of his under shorts. Even now the front of his jeans were darkly stained. No time to salvage anything, he supposed. Already, he was late to the set and now he’d be even later as he took time to clean the mess off his thighs and groin before he could climb into Elrond’s elaborate costume and wig.

The pocket turned inside out as he withdrew his hand.  A bit of foil fell with a wet thud on the floor. The inside of the pocket was as equally coated as his fingers. He should learn to be more careful in the future and avoid being so rushed and careless. How one managed that when one was never alone with one’s own thoughts for more than ten minutes at a stretch was beyond him. No matter what, it seemed, he was always surrounded by make-up artists and cameramen and a director so insane that he thought he could film three movies at once. Even a quiet moment with a cuppa was an event, never mind a second of private pleasure.

A distasteful grimace ghosted his wide mouth as he removed several tissues from the box on his make-up table and began wiping his hand. “Yes, well, this should teach me to leave half a chocolate bar in my front pocket, at any rate.”