crappy short story

November

It hadn't been one of those friendships that meant much, if you see what I'm getting at.  It rarely went below the polite.  That is, it was fun to talk to her, Marian, because in that way that sometimes happens, we understood one another's...methodology of expression, to be as dry as possible about it; we used words in similar fashion.  We had similar tendencies toward pounding words down to their slimmest width, their largest girth--her mind was quick like quicksilver, supple as a silverfish, and her smile was...well, it was.

But I wasn't in love with her.  It would have been terribly inconvenient, especially considering that I had been having an affair with her girlfriend's sister's husband (though, in my own defense, she never would have broken up with the girlfriend--that is, in my own defense, I didn't know that the husband I was sleeping with was the husband of her girlfriend's sister [I just knew he was someone's husband--I'd told Marian about this entanglement in one of those moments of braggadocio to do with the fact that one is more self-destructive than the average person, and she'd given me a look within a genus that I'm used to recieving, half-impressed, half-surprised, half-, sort of, I-really-didn't-think-you-had-it-in-you {too many halves}].  It would have been horribly terribly inconvenient, considering that the whole thing had blown up in my face, as I really really ought to have expected (and, I suppose, in some corner of my soul more twisted than the rest, did expect--otherwise how can one really explain carrying on an affair with a married man [who could afford decent restaurants, but certainly didn't keep me in lingeree or something] who I didn't love?).  It would have been beyond inconvenient, considering that the only memory of the afternoon which had passed about a week ago, last Monday--a melee of truths coming to light, accusations, and tears, by the by, which would have done a soap opera proud--that was really sticking it to me, over and over, was that look on Marian's face when she'd realized that it was I who'd caused darling Nikki (the sister of Marian's girlfriend, and really, she is a darling, damn her [that is, between she and I, I am just so obviously the villainess of the piece]) such pangs over Reilus's (that's the husband, my ex-lover) infidelity--and that Marian had known about it, and hadn't stopped it, had even quasi-admired me for it.

She's a fair person, too; she knows why I did it.  Or something.  Maybe that's not it.  Maybe she felt guilty about not stopping me because she was too invested in the belief that her own judgment wasn't terrible about people--that I could (somehow) still be some sort of good guy if she took the responsibility for me being an infidelitous bitch.  No--I probably didn't make enough of an impact  to merit that sort of psychological maneuvering on her part.  But then why did she look so... Can I even say the word?  Ashamed of herself.

Why did she look so hurt.  That's what I'm going for.

Anyway, I'd made quite an anecdote out of what had happened during the blow-up--my friends had laughed riotously over what got said, who got slapped (I showed them the red, described in some detail the exhilaration of the feeling); they're used to me, they know that I can't not do these things, that I have a taste for wrong that doesn't allow me to stop on the edges of anything I get involved in (at least actions-wise; lately I've begun to wonder if I've ever felt anything at all [that is, I've grown a little uncomfortable with the fact that the answer to that question is "no fucking way"]).  We were off to karaoke and I'd already drunk about a half a bottle of wine, in my room, alone except for my reflection in the half-mirror...  My friends know to expect that too; I'd shared around the second half when they came to pick me up, and we'd spent maybe fifteen minutes laughing about the moment when Mimi (that was Marian's girlfriend, Nikki's sister) had told Reilus to get out and take his lapdog with him (I was the lapdog; my friends and I agreed that it was a pretty amazing insult considering the heat of the moment).  It was a two-block walk to the pub at which the karaoke was held; we spent the time singing snatches of Weil songs.  A pitcher of beer was ordered; we'd obtained a song book and I was laughingly attempting to boss Mitchy into handing it over when I spotted--well, Mimi first, and then Marian.

They were with a group of their friends, who all looked a little more judgmental than I approved of, as usual.  Say what you will about me, I'm always open to new experiences, whereas... But to judge them is being pretty judgmental of me.  Marian wasn't looking at me, but I think she'd seen me.  Mimi was saying something to the people on the opposite side of the table; heads swiveled; eyes met mine.  I drank my beer.

Niether of our parties left.  Something was happening inside me.  I have no idea why I chose Motley Crue's "Without You" to sing; I just know that when I was bringing my slip of paper to the mistress of the karaoke machine, Marian happened to be bringing several pieces of paper up at the same moment.  I don't think either of us planned it; I didn't.  It wasn't a snub; she just didn't make eye contact, which meant that she felt guilty still, for the thing she didn't do, for the thing I did.

Her party sang all in a row, and it might have been just me, but their choices seemed a little pointed.  Nikki wasn't with them; however, Mimi's rendering of "I Want You to Know," or whatever that Alanis Morrissette anthem to all abandoned women is titled, felt directed at me.  One of the other girls sang Natalie Imbruglia's "Torn"... it seemed like she was looking at me on the choruses.  Marian sang "These Boots are Made for Walkin'", which she'd sung the first time I'd met her at a karaoke place, but I doubt she did it because of that--I doubt she remembered that.

When I got up to sing, a significant portion of their party went outside for a cigarette.  I really don't know what came over me.  Really.  Really really really.  I have no idea.  It might have been the mix of bad merlot and quality bitter.  I'm generally not the type of person who can stand looking anyone in the eye for more than seven seconds.  "Without You" is probably the corniest ballad in the entire pseudo-thrash rock genre.  I don't know how I managed to...  I was looking at her when I sang it, is all.  Marian, that is.

Probably more like looking through her.  I left straight after that--insisted to Darryn that I was fine leaving alone.  I was, too--I met Mimi at the door, and she looked like she wanted to punch me, but she saw Marian through the window and satisfied herself with some barbed comments.  At home I cried a lot.  First it was because I'd never truly loved anyone, and then it was because I'd never loved Marian, and then it was because I did love Marian...and then it was because I didn't have any more wine.