| SPRING 2003 |
flashquake Fiction |
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Once upon a time, it could have gone either way: Either he'd marry her or he'd kill her. But now, thanks to her sedition, he was just going to have to commit murder. Thanks a lot, Beth. Willem stared into the cigarette case mirror. "Don't feel guilty. She should have followed the rules. The rules of breaking up aren't hard to remember. Number One: Stay away from each other. Number Two: Ditto for each other's family, co-workers, and friends." Including distant friends whom, for months, he'd been meaning to call up and visit, talk about old times. "Stay out of my social circle. Or else." 
He released his fist. He turned toward the open window. The chill blue yonder summoned him. *** Under the painful lights of the Seven Eleven, an old man flagged Willem down; so he took this one detour, and they shared a menthol cigarette at midnight. The man listened to Willem's tale, the whole time nodding. "It's common decency," he replied. "Friends should be off limits to your ex-girlfriend. This Beth of yours never should have given her phone number to the guy. It's just not done. It's uncivilized." "Exactly, and here's another thing that's not done," Willem said, waving his smoke around. "You don't get all buddy-buddy. Don't share intimate, sexual details. You don't run your fingers through his Afro, and smile all coy, and say, 'Listen, Marshal, tee hee, I'm throwing this party next week. You should come.'" "Damn straight you don't. I don't feel sorry for this girl. She brought it all down on herself." "Damn straight." Willem bummed out another cigarette before hurrying along his way. "Beth could have dated any dude in the city and I wouldn't have minded," he told some granny at the bus stop. "Just as long as he's not a friend of mine. Is that so much to ask?" Headlights loomed through the mist. "The bus," she said, collecting her umbrella. It halted in a squeal of hydraulics, ending with a short, steamy sneeze, at the curb. The loading door folded open. Willem cut in front, begging Granny's pardon, and grabbed the handrail. "I can't stop thinking about it," he said as he dug through his pocketful of nickels. He chinked 38 coins in the fare chute, then claimed a seat up front, behind the sneeze guard. An image of Marshal and Beth naked together barged into his mind. Marshal's rippling shoulder blades rolled into view as he mounted her. Willem cringed. His binocular vision blurred against black and tan flesh and the drone of a diesel engine. Rain was spooling under the tires. "I'm not unreasonable," he said, sliding closer to Granny on the seat. "It's not like I'm going to kill her just for noticing a guy at the grocery store." Granny tightened the strap around her umbrella. Willem next regarded the bus driver. "Hey, I know no one can be expected to foresee running into your ex-boyfriend's masseuse in the cereal aisle. I know that. But Beth should have said, 'Sorry, Marshal, we can't chat. That'd be breaking Rule Number Two. That'd be wrong.' It should have been that simple." The driver pointed. The plaque under the mirror read, "Do Not Talk To Driver While Vehicle Is In Motion." He kicked it into fourth gear, summoning a high roar from the motor, and frowned. The bus tore down Central Avenue leaving rainbows. By 1:43 in the morning, Willem, alone, was jogging, almost skipping, from the bus stop. An un-ghostly silhouette of himself appeared in each puddle and vanished under his footfall. "Will you really kill her?" it shouted as he passed over. "I'll strangle her," he said. "How so sure you won't chicken out?" "Because that's what she's expecting." Willem put his legs to running. He rounded a corner and its tomblike parliament of trash cans. A candy wrapper got sucked into his wake, clung to his shoes. He gasped for breath. "If I let her get away with disrespect. Ing the rules. She won't take me seriously. Then she'll think she. Can screw whenever she wants. Whomever she wants. The bitch. Must. Die." He clomped up the steps to her porch and knock-knockity-knock-knocked on the bitch's front door. He bent forward, gulping for air. Knockity-- The door squeaked wide open. "Will," Beth said, "brr, you're out late. You okay, dude?" Barefoot, smelling of marijuana, she joined him out in the coldness, in shadow. The rumbling sky brought out the blue in her complexion. "Aren't you breaking, like, one of your little breakup rules by coming here?" she said. "Are you alone?" "Of course." "Good." Beth seemed suddenly a liar. "Er, Kristen is upstairs," she said, rolling her eyes, "actually. Kris is wasted, though. So it's really just you and me, dude. Though not technically, um." "You broke Rule Number Two." "Oh." Beth rubbed her biceps, glancing around. "I knew it'd be something like that." The breeze tousling her frilly nightgown was indicative of storm. She gazed into the blanket of clouds dripping all over the Earth. A shoulder came to rest against the threshold. "Guess we have some stuff to settle, huh?" Willem nodded. "Look, I," she said, "um." Her pink eyes darted like guppies into his soul. "Do you want to come in?" "Inside?" "Just for a little while. To talk." She approached Willem's face and, with a dainty touch, deposited butterflies underneath the skin. Her subtle smile mocked him. Her neck tilted. A vein rose to the surface. It was time. His knees suddenly started kicking. Groping to ease the fall, he slid down her front side, ripping the threads of her gown. Her shoulder fell bare. Willem grabbed. "Please marry me," he said. "Beth, marry me, God. Forever." He slumped, unburdened. With an arm around her ankles, he curled onto the cement. The surface of the porch scraped his cheek. It pinched. It pricked.
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