ISN’T SHE PRETTY

by Suzy Devere

He wants me to be so impressed, fawning all over him like the staff, kissing his ass like the rest of our table, sucking his cock like the rest of the world…

My eyes scan the room as his voice gets louder.  He’s drunk again, or damn near drunk, and his hands are groping the female server in front of all our guests.  Humiliating.  The women at the table turn and stare at me.  It’s clear they’re thinking “What will she do?” and my body answers them with a stiff turn of my head and an apathetic stare towards the door.  To please him, I’ve sat myself opposite and down, since we’re married.  A look under the tablecloth’s edge reveals tassels on his loafers, and my memories skip back to Killian who always wore Converse, dirty red Converse till his own foot’s sole touched the Village streets through the bottom.  Only then would he toss them out.  And Jacob wore boots.  Only boots and jeans, even in summer.  Skips to flip flops and corner delis, graffiti covered walls and cigarettes, loud music and laughter…then an image of my brother, dead now.  Even my brother, Republican ass kisser extraordinaire, shot down in Iraq, was afraid of the tassel on a man’s shoe.  But here I’ve gone and married one? Married a floppy, spineless tassel with shit loads of money and a Wall Street office.  Why do I sit here?

“Isn’t she pretty?” he says, pinching her ass as she puts the plate down in front of his guest to the left.  They, the Lemmings who comprise our table nod their heads like brainless fucking clones.  All they want is to eat free food, steak cooked by Daniel, drink free wine, and walk away with a few stories or even better, a new silent partner in some bullshit venture or another.  Why do I sit here?

Now he’s ordering bottles of vintage port–Quinta Do Noval Nacional–for the table.  We are a table of twenty-two, five of whom are bleached blonde and silicone clad, and the rest are men.  Are my shoes flat?  Can I run away quickly?  Do I have clean underwear on?  Can I jump in front of a speeding taxi?  I think of better ways of revenge and nod my head, too.  “Yes, that sounds fantastic!  Bring us the port, and yes, isn’t she pretty!” I hear myself say.

Now I’m staring at the painter’s razor blade.  Our rooms in the Chelsea flat will be Linen with a splash of Robin’s Egg Blue to pull out the colours in the kilims we brought back from Turkey.  Fingers that barely seem mine grab the painter’s blade, its electric blue handle feels like freedom, like my passport felt the first time I left the States.  I retract its blade and it drops without a sound into my big, big leather bag. 

And now I’m staring at him sleeping, and my bag is not too very far away.  Why do I sit here?

 

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~ This piece was posted on Monday, September 15th, 2008 and was filed under Short Story, Writing. You can make comments on it below. ~