Daily writing exercise, 750words.com
fiction by Jason Edwards
Remember that time we went to the fish market, and I kept saying this is so stupid, this is so cliche, this is so tourist. And you just laughed and charged forward, like you knew exactly what you were doing. You have this way, Marjorie, of making people think you know exactly what you’re doing, even if they can’t figure it out at all. Well now I’m starting to think you have no clue what you’re doing, and you’re too stupid to realize that where you end up is as random as where you thought you were going.
I mean I know you take credit for Wallace, since we met him that same night and he was fascinated by our fish market story. One thing led to another, as they say, and he stills loves me, even after everything. But why should I give you credit. We would have gone to that party anyway. He and I would have talked about something. I was wearing that black dress with the red and yellow flowers on it, the one you gave me after the accident, the one you said you couldn’t wear anymore.
I mean, god damn it, Marjorie, you drove your car into the side of a French restaurant and lost your leg, and you have some people convinced that you somehow meant for that to happen. Not literally, of course, no one thinks you timed it so that drunk driver would side-swipe you and force you to hop the curb. But karmically, Marjorie, karmically, people really do think you wouldn’t have had it any other way. Lost your leg, met Carl in rehab, fell in love, got married. And then when he fell out of the hot air balloon, my god.
People hate you Marjorie, did you know that? They’d never say it, but they do, they must, who loses the love of their life in a freak accident, gets a huge life insurance settlement, only to have it taken away when the insurance company somehow proved your marriage wasn’t legal? No one except you, and what did you do when you opened that letter from the bank, saying they’d taken all the money back plus ten thousand extra for costs? You went and got ice-cream. You said Puppy Park only makes Salted Carmichael once a year and you weren’t going to let something like money keep you away from your favorite. God I could just kill you.
Yes, I said I would always be there for you, and I’m going to stand by that promise. I told you, in the hospital, that I would help you with your artificial leg whenever you wanted me to. I felt so bad, my best friend lost her god damned leg, I had to say something, and you, you smiled, and you said thank you, and you meant it, and you made me feel better. Later, I told Wallace that story, and he said I must really hate you for that. I never realized it before. I do. I hate you so much, Marjorie.
You told me that you can’t wear dresses, because of the artificial leg. You said it was ironic that you had to wear pants, clothes that show off legs, and that you can’t wear clothes that hide legs. I still don’t know what the hell you were talking about. Remember, I asked you, So explain shorts to me then. And you made that sweet smile with the wet eyes, the face you make when you’re finally feeling pain for a change. I can’t get that face you of my head.
I’ll tell you what happened. Wallace told me that he loves his baby girl but he hates his ex-wife for forcing him to be a dad. I just wanted to make him happy. I thought to myself, what would Marjorie do? What would sweet happy-go-lucky Marjorie do? What would stupid one-legged flighty miss Marjorie do? So I told his ex that Wallace was giving their daughter funny looks. And I thought of your sweet smile and your wet eyes.
I swear I made it up. I swear I had no idea. And now Wallace is in jail. And it’s your fault, Marjorie, it’s your fault. You want to take credit for Wallace, then take all the credit. Do you know what they did to him in prison? He says he still loves me, and now I don’t know if that makes me happy, or if it makes me feel filthy.