Roberta and Max
Jul. 21st, 2003 05:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dotintheskyThey no longer had anything in common. Not wings dug up from their backs, nor the grease accumulating on the walls of their kitchen; none of the gracious words which they had once spoken together, nor the Dali posters they had found in a second-hand store - the posters which suited their lonely rooms so well.
"Please be happy" he told her over the phone. She sat mute, like a dirty doll, dreaming of ways to hurt him back. She took a shower and decided to fuck his best friend.
They had known each other for 3 years. Beginning, middle, and end. They had met in the taxi line up, outside Heathrow airport; a conversation sparked from Lionel Ritchie's voice drifting out of a taxi not intended for either of them. They had both loved "Dancing on the Ceiling" when they were children. By perfect coincidence they were heading the same way. He paid her fare and wrote his phone number on the back of her Marlboro lights.
"I always thought he was a loser," her only female friend confessed over a medium-large Frappucino. But no harsh words or realizations about the past could stop something inside her falling apart. The cafe seemed littered with singles, their desperation brewing over the pungent scents of disinfectant and over-boiled cream.
They loved spending the weekends locked indoors, hands in each others hairs. They sometimes felt psychic, pretended their dreams were related, their aspirations opportune. He wanted to succeed as a theatre actor, she wanted to shape dentistry into an art form. But at night, their heads turned away from each other in bed, and a sense of finality descended upon them. Her menstrual cramps got worse; he developed an interest in golf.
"Hey, maybe it's for the best," his bestfriend told him one afternoon (the same one she was planning on f**king as soon as possible.) Both men played roles in a marxist version of the musical Cats. Critics had been unkind, calling it a "visit to the litterbox" for the audience. All the things she had said about his beauty, his talent as an actor, still haunted him. Nobody had been so kind to him, or been willing to inflate his ego so late at night.
They shared an appartment in the second year of their relationship. The rumble of the street drilled perverse arguments into their routine. She lost his favourite golf ball in an innocent game of hide and seek. He masturbated over porno mags when locked in the toilet. Her mother accused them both of destroying marriage's institution. His father was diagnosed with Alzheimer's.
Fear of being alone brought them together for the final year. Stock markets were crashing, epidemics had sprung up in Asia and threatened the clean amoral lifestyles of the West. Jeova Witnesses were finally being taken seriously. The least they could do was cling to each other on their brand-new futon. She suggested they move out of London, perhaps a cottage in Wales or a rustic villa in Portugal. He wanted their sex life improved, contemplated suggesting a menage-a-trois. In the Autumn, they became addicted to a reality show on dating.
"You need a man with money. He was just a boy," her best friend pointed out. The cafe was becoming crowded, dangerous. They only seemed to talk about men and S.A.R.S. these days. A cough in a jam-packed room could cause a stampede. They held hands over the table. She decided to disclose her revenge: "I'm going to seduce his best friend."
They didn't know who had come up with the idea to break up. But it was clear that he had spoken the final goodbye, leaving her to feel like the dumped loser. He packed his suitcases and left in the morning of Easter sunday. She cried for a few hours, then stopped when she realized he wouldn't cry at all. She was wrong: at lunch, he excused himself from his friends and balled his eyes out in the pub's mens room. The attendant thought a woman had locked herself in there by mistake
"Please be happy" he told her over the phone. She sat mute, like a dirty doll, dreaming of ways to hurt him back. She took a shower and decided to fuck his best friend.
They had known each other for 3 years. Beginning, middle, and end. They had met in the taxi line up, outside Heathrow airport; a conversation sparked from Lionel Ritchie's voice drifting out of a taxi not intended for either of them. They had both loved "Dancing on the Ceiling" when they were children. By perfect coincidence they were heading the same way. He paid her fare and wrote his phone number on the back of her Marlboro lights.
"I always thought he was a loser," her only female friend confessed over a medium-large Frappucino. But no harsh words or realizations about the past could stop something inside her falling apart. The cafe seemed littered with singles, their desperation brewing over the pungent scents of disinfectant and over-boiled cream.
They loved spending the weekends locked indoors, hands in each others hairs. They sometimes felt psychic, pretended their dreams were related, their aspirations opportune. He wanted to succeed as a theatre actor, she wanted to shape dentistry into an art form. But at night, their heads turned away from each other in bed, and a sense of finality descended upon them. Her menstrual cramps got worse; he developed an interest in golf.
"Hey, maybe it's for the best," his bestfriend told him one afternoon (the same one she was planning on f**king as soon as possible.) Both men played roles in a marxist version of the musical Cats. Critics had been unkind, calling it a "visit to the litterbox" for the audience. All the things she had said about his beauty, his talent as an actor, still haunted him. Nobody had been so kind to him, or been willing to inflate his ego so late at night.
They shared an appartment in the second year of their relationship. The rumble of the street drilled perverse arguments into their routine. She lost his favourite golf ball in an innocent game of hide and seek. He masturbated over porno mags when locked in the toilet. Her mother accused them both of destroying marriage's institution. His father was diagnosed with Alzheimer's.
Fear of being alone brought them together for the final year. Stock markets were crashing, epidemics had sprung up in Asia and threatened the clean amoral lifestyles of the West. Jeova Witnesses were finally being taken seriously. The least they could do was cling to each other on their brand-new futon. She suggested they move out of London, perhaps a cottage in Wales or a rustic villa in Portugal. He wanted their sex life improved, contemplated suggesting a menage-a-trois. In the Autumn, they became addicted to a reality show on dating.
"You need a man with money. He was just a boy," her best friend pointed out. The cafe was becoming crowded, dangerous. They only seemed to talk about men and S.A.R.S. these days. A cough in a jam-packed room could cause a stampede. They held hands over the table. She decided to disclose her revenge: "I'm going to seduce his best friend."
They didn't know who had come up with the idea to break up. But it was clear that he had spoken the final goodbye, leaving her to feel like the dumped loser. He packed his suitcases and left in the morning of Easter sunday. She cried for a few hours, then stopped when she realized he wouldn't cry at all. She was wrong: at lunch, he excused himself from his friends and balled his eyes out in the pub's mens room. The attendant thought a woman had locked herself in there by mistake
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no subject
on 2003-07-21 10:44 am (UTC)Re:
on 2003-07-22 02:14 am (UTC);o)
Re:
on 2003-07-22 11:12 am (UTC)no subject
on 2003-07-21 12:34 pm (UTC)Re:
on 2003-07-22 02:13 am (UTC):oP
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on 2003-07-22 05:22 am (UTC)Re:
on 2003-07-22 05:26 am (UTC);o)
if I write the story, I'll show it to you first.
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on 2003-07-22 05:37 am (UTC)Re:
on 2003-07-22 05:41 am (UTC)which song will you write a story about first??
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on 2003-07-22 05:46 am (UTC)Drive you Home, perhaps
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on 2003-07-22 06:05 am (UTC)Deal?
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on 2003-07-22 06:09 am (UTC)Re:
on 2003-07-22 06:11 am (UTC);o)
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on 2003-07-22 06:16 am (UTC)Re:
on 2003-07-22 06:20 am (UTC)Re:
on 2003-07-22 06:28 am (UTC)did you read my email yet?
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on 2003-07-22 07:40 am (UTC)Re:
on 2003-07-22 07:43 am (UTC)Re:
on 2003-07-23 02:15 am (UTC)thanks for the lovely reply. Hope all works out good!
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on 2003-07-23 05:19 am (UTC)no subject
on 2003-07-21 05:34 pm (UTC):)
no subject
on 2003-07-22 02:06 am (UTC)thanks sweet snhucky!
no subject
on 2003-07-23 02:04 am (UTC)but you will...
no subject
on 2003-07-23 09:04 am (UTC)you'll be holding golf clubs for a living.
no subject
on 2003-07-24 02:14 am (UTC)no subject
on 2003-07-25 01:46 am (UTC)lalala
Seabiscuit
lalala
no subject
on 2005-12-13 09:01 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2005-12-13 11:28 pm (UTC)