Marianne

I guess this is sort of my fault. It was me who fucked her, after all. Still I’m not sure I deserve these harsh words. Not here, at least. Not now, at the very least. The Wild Rooster is a friendly bar. I know the staff here, I know most of the locals, I can turn up here anytime and have a chat to someone but…damn, this place seems a lot less welcoming when your girl is screaming in your face.

I hop to my feet and head to the bar. She’s following me. Still fucking screaming. I order another pint for me and a Malibu and coke for her. A peace offering? Maybe. I guess I’ll find out.

“Baby,” I say, cutting her off mid-sentence, “what’s the problem?”

Her eyes bulge. “Have you listened to a fucking word I’ve just said?”

I think for a moment. “No.”

“You asshole. You fucker.” She’s right up in my face.

“Look, babe,” I say. “Don’t be like this.”

“How the fuck do you want me to be?” she screams. Her face is a swamp of tears and make-up. She takes a step back. She looks like a doll, lost in a world far too big for her. “I’ll be anything,” she says, her tears gingerly slipping down her cheeks. “Anything for you. Marianne wouldn’t have done that. I won’t play fucking co-star to her.”

“Marianne’s pretty,” I say. “But not as pretty as you.”

“Pretty? Is that all I am?” She downs her drink in one swallow. “Fuck pretty. And fuck you.”

“Fine. You’re beautiful. Is that what you want to hear?”

“Oh, yes, master,” she says. “Try and put a little less sincerity in your words. I don’t think the entire bar heard you being a fake shit!”

It’s too much. I slap her. The man next to me gasps. A silence falls. She looks up and me and grins, her eyes shining with a beautiful madness, my palm marks a burn on her cheek.

“I’ll go back to her,” I say. “Fuck all these people. I don’t need you.” I shrug. “I’ll go back to Marianne. I never had to hit her.”

She laughs, then. Her lips twitch and she slaps her knee. “You don’t know, do you?” She laughs again. “What do you remember about Marianne?”

I shrug. “She’s pretty.”

“She was so pretty,” she agrees, nodding fast. “Was. Very much was.”

“What?” I feel uneasy. Something’s going on here. “What do you mean?”

She pierces me with a gaze full of glee and Malibu. She’s grinning wide, her teeth bleached with coffee, her lips grossly wrinkled. “She killed herself. Marianne killed herself.”

The world freezes. From a thousand miles away I take hold of my pint and take a sip. “Not a chance,” I say, but it’s not me. My head begins to shake. Someone else is controlling it. “Not a chance.”