Kill Marguerite and Other Stories (7 page)

Because Paul has fucking weird dreams, naturally he assumed this was one and promptly went back to sleep. After a moment, so did I. When I woke up, the problem had not remedied itself. My chest bore a small open wound, from whence my heart dangled, snug between my mammary glands. I was more fascinated than alarmed—fascinated because my heart, now visible to the world,
looked remarkably like a tomato, a tomato whose rubbery skin steadily palpitated with soft th-thumps. When Paul woke up, he had an identically similar reaction. Your heart, he exclaimed animatedly, it looks remarkably like a tomato! Then he stopped staring and looked at me concerned. Darling, he said, we really should take you to the hospital, with that patronizing look like he knew what was best, and I certainly didn't. By that point in our relationship, however, I knew better than to cry condescension. He would invariably pull out the card that said, I have a master's degree in women's studies and a four-year background in anti-rape activism. What do you have, Christine?

Fuck you, Paul, I said with a yawn, and got up gracefully. I'm fine. I stepped in front of the mirror to examine myself more closely. Not only did my heart
look
remarkably like a tomato, there was no arguing that it was, in fact, a tomato, and large, at that, even when contracted. Indeed, it took great effort to resist taking a bite out of my heart. I gasped and covered myself, thinking of Paul's similar tomato-lust. I must keep my heart away from Paul, I thought, or he will surely eat it and kill me.

I put on a loose sweatshirt and began to feel somewhat lightheaded. Well, I thought, maybe I'll go to the emergency room after all. I wrote a note and stuck it on the refrigerator, then left the apartment and stepped onto the street. By now I had a severe craving for a big, juicy tomato, so I thought, why not stop at the farmer's market on the way to the hospital. There wasn't any rush.

It was crowded for a Tuesday morning, with everyone tossing around barked numbers and bulky bags of produce. I made my way past tables of green peppers, lettuce, jellies, and cucumbers before catching sight of the
tomatoes at the end of the market. Cherry tomatoes, plum tomatoes, slicing tomatoes, ahh. The shiny bright skin, the friendly round shape, the thirst-quenching blood.

Luscious, I thought. Pure lusciousness.

I needed a tomato, right then, right there.

My eyes locked in on an especially large specimen with a quirky asymmetrical stem. This, I thought, this is the one. I felt a twinge of guilt at my independent tomato-hunting. Although Paul and I tried always to prevent any development of co-dependence between us, so much so that we each made our own salads standing side by side at the counter, tomatoes had always been our thing. Now, not a full day since we had made our commitment, I was already acting selfishly. But what can you do about severe tomato cravings, I asked myself, except eat a tomato? Besides, you are selfish.

As I was beelining towards the tomatoes, lost in my thoughts, a woman with an elbow bumped into me. She elbowed me right between my breasts, right in the heart. I sucked in my breath and stopped still. The woman didn't bother to apologize, just stalked off indifferently as my blood went rushing to my head. Had it burst? Had my heart burst? I needed to sit down and check without flashing my breasts at anyone. I needed to sit down and catch my breath.

I sat down. I looked down my shirt. My heart had ruptured; juice was running down my abdomen. I reached down and cradled my broken heart. Realizing I was in a busy public area, I looked up alarmed. No, I calmed myself, no one had noticed me with my hand down my shirt; I had my heart to myself, and rightly so.

Having skipped breakfast, my hunger pangs were intense, and heightened by the smell of ripe tomato. I
would need to eat soon. And what more delicious than...? No. I knew better. And yet my stomach was turning itself inside out. So I grabbed my tomato heart and tugged it experimentally towards my lips, finding that its arterial vine had some give. I sucked my heart's juice. And...I couldn't help myself. I bit.

Immediately I felt stronger in the stomach and brain but weaker in the rest of my body. My chest hurt badly; pain shot all through. I mustered up all my strength and walked the two blocks to the hospital. The nurse in the emergency room took one look at me, gave me a clipboard, and said, take a seat. Although the pain was excruciating, I told myself to be patient. Other people needed doctors, too. But I couldn't even fill out the application form; my stomach was yawning noisily. What was I to do? So I lifted up my heart and took another bite. The nurse sighed. Well, now you'll need a transplant. Doctor!

I recovered fully. Paul and I decided to take a break. I feel sure it is a permanent break but have decided the decision is his. He will not be at peace unless he gets the last word and can legitimately justify the break-up on grounds not related to my heart.

I no longer eat tomatoes. When I see them now, I feel a phantom lurch in my chest. My new affair is with grapes. Cold, hard grapes. I like the white kind, the seedless kind, the ones that look like eyeballs. I like to plop a cold, hard seedless grape in my mouth and suck and suck before biting and feeling all the juice squirt out inside of me. Sometimes, I like to peel the skin off before chomping on the fleshy interior. But it's hard to find the time for that. We're all so busy these days.

CIRCE

The print version
of Kill Marguerite
includes the story, “Circe.” Due to ebook formatting limitations, it is excluded in this version. The story can be found, free of charge, at the author's website:
meganmilks.com
.

FLOATERS

Written with Leeyanne Moore

Wednesday. Longass day at work, but Wednesdays meant Sal's. Always a good crowd, always got the laughs. Sal's reminded Jason why he loved comedy: the control, the feeling of mastery he got when the audience responded to his every move.

Tonight, though. He didn't know. It had been a shit day, literally. This morning when he went to take a piss, he'd found a mess of oatmeal-colored floaters drifting around in the shit-speckled bowl.

Disgusting.

In the greenroom-cum-broom closet, Jason sat and crossed his legs so his foot wrapped around his calf. Last week he'd threatened to dump Ju-Rin if she started up again with the laxatives. Now he'd have to follow through.

He pulled out his phone and debated. No, he decided, shoving it back into his pocket. He'd do it after the set, when he felt powerful.

Now, he was too anxious. He jiggled his legs, trying to work his nervous energy down to just below stuttering fear.

Enter Kevin and Mike. Jason shifted so his ankle rested on his knee.

Kevin drew first, Mike second. Jason got third.

Jason introduced Kevin, and Kevin stepped up to the mic, did his usual.

Jason stood backstage in the gap between the green curtain and the back door, listening to Kevin introduce Mike. Mike went on. Jason listened with half an ear.

The thing was this. The first time they'd talked, weeks ago, she'd lied to his face. Made him think he was imagining everything.

Then last night he'd found more wrappers in the bathroom trash and a box right in the front of the cabinet—she hadn't bothered hiding them. He'd started off with “Baby, I just want you to be healthy.” Long silence. He'd followed that with “I can't be with you, you know, if you're....” Another long silence.

The way she looked at him—like he was slightly pathetic. It made the situation surreal.

Next thing he knew, she'd gotten up off the couch. He could hear her in the bathroom, the crinkling rustling of her throwing out all the packets of laxatives she'd squirreled away. It was that easy, he thought, relieved beyond belief. She came out smiling. He hugged her. She wiggled out of his hug and went to clean the dishes. They watched TV together. It was good.

Then this morning he goes to use the toilet and finds a giant ‘fuck you' floater is bobbing in it. Black diarrhea slopped under the rim—he got it on his hands lifting the seat. Jesus.

He shook his head. Focus. Mike was introducing him.

Mike walked off stage and punched him in the shoulder. “They're all yours,” he said.

Jason, still jittery, took a deep breath. Then he stepped up to the mic.

“What am I going to do?” he asked. He paced back and forth, mic in his hand. The audience watched him. “Relationships, relationships. What am I going to do?”

“Eat me,” Mike called out from backstage.

“Thanks, Mike. I need friends like you like I need a sebaceous cyst.” The audience chuckled, and the stage felt a little more like home.

“So here's my problem. I'm thinking of dumping my bulimic girlfriend. In fact, I want an upgrade. What I want is...an anorexic girlfriend.”

He paused, twitching with nerves. Then he went for it.

“You—healthy audience people out there—may not realize how aspirational this is for me. There's an enormous difference between a bulimic girlfriend and the anorexic. The anorexic girlfriend is the Mercedes Benz of dysfunction. People look at her: is she going to, you know, die? Or is she a model?” A laugh. A big one. “They just don't know. On the plus side—and this must not be underestimated—the anorexic is the ultimate cheap date. How much does water cost? Go to a fancy place, maybe five bucks. Not bad. And a lot of places you go it's practically free. I know of some restaurants that just give it away.

“My bulimic girlfriend, on the other hand, orders a modest four-course meal and then wants to share mine. ‘Share.' As in, attack my plate like Godzilla. I went out for Japanese with my girl once, now a chunk of Japan's missing.” A couple laughs.

He made a sad, wise trek in a short circle around the stage, then chuckled. “Everyone pities the girl with the eating disorder. But what about her co-dependent boyfriend? What about me? People, a third-world country now lives in my toilet.”

They laughed.

“It's like some war zone in there.”

He stopped. Turned. “The floaters, for instance. Remember Battleship, that kid's game? It's like that. They're cruising around, they're bobbing, colliding, sinking. G4 to F8. Kghshhrh! Oh no! You sank my battleship!”

More laughter.

“Up, down. Up, down. I now know what inspired the lava lamp.”

He stopped again. “Ever hear of
The Creature from the Black Lagoon
? Classic horror film. I used to obsess over it when I was seven. What is a black lagoon exactly? This kept me awake at night.” Hand on waist, willing to sound like a prissy nine year old. “
Where
is this mysterious black lagoon?”

He paused. “It's in my toilet.

“I stumble into the bathroom in the middle of the night, half awake. I lift the lid—” He pushed back three feet. “Whoa. Black water in the bowl. It's like toxic sludge, and the smell...” he pinched his nose and grimaced. “Then this fucking webbed claw comes out of the bowl—oh no!”

He froze in a mock crouch.

“But wait!” He sprang up. “I recognize that rubbery claw. ‘Hi, honey.' And my girlfriend lets out a little screechy moan.”

He made his face as long as possible, rolling up his eyes while he let forth an unearthly howl. The audience died. “‘Don't you look cute in there.'” He moaned a few more times, as if she were responding. It killed.

“And I'm like ‘Love you, boo. Don't stay in there too late!'—You've been a great audience, ladies and gentlemen!”

He bowed, then rushed from the stage, barely hearing the applause.

Kevin high-fived him. “Yo. Good show.”

“Edgy,” Mike said, pushing his chair back onto its back legs. “But can he push it further?”

“I'll push it further,” Jason said. “Into your
ass
.”

When he got home, she was in bed. He found a covered pot on the stove, lifted the lid. She'd made fishcakes, his favorite. He smiled.

Weeks later, Jason was stepping onto the small stage, holding up his hands at the applause. Mike followed and stood at his side, half a head taller. By sheer accident (i.e., Mike was copying him again) they were both wearing white buttondowns, neckties, and vests. It looked good, kind of professional.

“Okay,” Jason said, grabbing the first mic. “We're doing things a little differently this evening. I know some of you are already familiar with my act as Mr. Insensitive, so tonight I'm going to bring out my friend—” He motioned to Mike, who stepped forward and grabbed the second mic. “...who's also grossly insensitive, to help me talk about my dysfunctional relationship. Here we go!”

Mike held out a hand to the audience as if to hush them. “We're going to do an improv scene for you tonight.”

Jason was rolling his shoulders, getting into character.

“So the first thing—” Mike went on, “the first thing you need to know is that this is a scene between Jason and his girlfriend. I'm going to play the role of Jason.”

Jason walked around the stage behind Mike, shaking himself out with a few slick boxing moves. He stepped up. “I, meanwhile, will be playing the role of a four-foot-tall Korean dumpling.” Pause for laughter. “Steamed.”