A/N: I don't know what this is, but I still like it. This is one of my newest pieces, and my shortest. I think I wrote this the same night as Past Plans, but I don't know. Anyway, hope you enjoy and please review - I'm looking for opinions on writing style and such which.

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Layla looked out her window. It was raining again. She liked the rain – it was very poetic. Her beau, Michael, agreed. They were a part of a new uprising – the sensitivity of the modern generation was being expressed in art. They were like the hippies of the twenty-first century.

Only without the drugs. But with all the free love. Layla herself was in to the whole masses of people – the orgies as it were. She wasn’t fussed about sharing with other women – it was all a new experience to her.

Michael felt differently. He was more reserved. But despite this, Layla felt that their relationship was a strong one. She was allowed to sleep with anyone and everyone she pleased as long as she informed him.

She never noticed the jealousy, the disgust in his eyes. His grin was all she saw when she looked for approval, and once his face had broken open, gleaming teeth in two perfect rows, she bounced off with a smirk to join her fellows in freedom.

Michael was looking at the rain too, from another room. Layla was in with her hordes, and he was left alone in the main room where the artists usually met. He was here because of the poetry. There was beauty in the new fad, but Layla… she seemed to be here for the sex.

It disgusted him.

It wasn’t that he was asexual or that he didn’t enjoy or condone physical pleasure – no, but he was old fashioned. He believed that there should be an emotional attachment there, that it should mean something. And he also believed in monogamous relationships. Still, this was what she … enjoyed, and so as long as she was honest and open he bore it.

He wasn’t actually jealous, not as such. He just couldn’t understand why she would want to throw herself around like a common whore.

Besides, he loved her. Why wasn’t that enough?

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Six months had passed and it was raining again. This time, Layla and Michael sat together in the kitchen of their home. Their fad, their beloved hippie art, had already all but passed. There was only a small collection left from their group, which had, at its peak, had over five hundred people. Now they were down to about thirty.

Layla was depressed. She missed the huge groups. She loved the masses – she felt loved being in a large group.

Michael was depressed because Layla was. But secretly he was happy. Layla would get over their cult’s dying, but he … how could he truly be sad, despite the lack of art?

He had his Layla back. And to him, she was art.

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