Twenty‑six

Now I know who Viola is.

All those weeks she’s had him many times, and she’s made love with him in every position, and I saw them having a coffee, hand in hand, during a lunch break. Her laughter constantly changed and his body transformed itself like soft clay into a body that was different every time. And he loved her on every occasion, whatever face or voice she was wearing that day.

I met her yesterday when I went into the pet shop where she works. She’s young, she isn’t beautiful – I don’t think any of the others are really beautiful – but I do think she’s his type, I’m convinced she could be. My first impulse was to hit her and kick her without losing my temper, coldly, deliberately. Strike her on that tight‑ fitting top, beneath which jutted two enormous breasts.

A man called her by name from the other side of the shop and that name was Viola.

I gritted my teeth as though I wanted to break them.

She looked at me sweetly and said, “Are you looking for something? Can I help? ”

If you really want to do something, help me to take away those horrible images that are rooting themselves in my imagination. Please put your panties back on and get off that sofa; arrange your hair and twist it into a braid, reapply your lipstick and do up the zippers of your boots. Put on your scarf and your coat. And before you walk through that door, don’t say good‑ bye, just whisper, “This is the last time we’ll see each other. It was nice – you’re marvelous, ” as you look at him lying there, powerful and naked, wondering why you’re leaving.

And when you go through that fucking door don’t cry, love. Don’t cry – that would hurt me too much. The idea that those big green eyes of yours might never again see the light of the sun, because I would have blinded them with the light of my fire.

Viola looks at me, while with startled eyes I watch the whole scene of my film play itself out.

“You’re Melissa, aren’t you? ” she asks.

I nod and reply clumsily, “Yes, why? ”

“I’ve seen you on TV a few times. I like you. ” She goes on smiling. What the hell are you smiling at?

“And I’ve read your book, ” she goes on. “I really liked it, although I’d have written it differently myself…”

Go fuck yourself, bitch. Go on, just show me what you would have done. Take a piece of paper and a pen and write a book, if you’re capable of it. But all you’re capable of is straddling the dick of the man who belongs to me, who will never give himself to you as he gave himself to me.

“I don’t need anything, thanks. I’ve got to go now, ” I say as I make for the exit.

She watches me going without a word, and I know perfectly, I CAN SEE THEM, I see that her eyes have become a boundless green marsh that will soon, very soon, swallow me up.