...But Home is Nowhere: Charlie & Margaux.

<center>http://i45.photobucket.com/albums/f97/noir_city/CM.jpg

We held hands on the last night on earth.

Our mouths filled with dust, we kissed in the fields and under trees,

screaming like dogs, bleeding dark into the leaves.

It was empty on the edge of town but we knew everyone floated

along the bottom of the river.

So we walked through the waste where the road curved into the sea

and the shattered seasons lay,

and the bitter smell of burning was on you like a disease.

In our cancer of passion you said, "Death is a midnight runner."

The sky had come crashing down like the news of an intimate suicide.

We picked up the shards and formed them into shapes

of stars that wore like an antique wedding dress.

The echoes of the past broke the hearts of the unborn

as the ferris wheel silently slowed to a stop.

The few insects skittered away in hopes of a better pastime.

I kissed you at the apex of the maelstrom and asked

if you would accompany me in a quick fall,

but you made me realize that my ticket wasn't for two.

I rode alone.

You said, "The cinders are falling like snow."

There is poetry in despair, and we sang with unrivaled beauty,

bitter elegies of savagery and eloquence.

Of blue and grey.

Strange, we ran down desperate streets and carved our names in the flesh of the city.

The sun was stagnated somewhere beyond the rim of the horizon

and the darkness is a mystery of curves and lines.

Still, we lay under the emptiness and drifted slowly outward,

and somewhere in the wilderness we found salvation scratched

into the earth like a message.


I cannot leave here, I cannot stay.
Forever haunted, more than afraid.
Asphyxiate on words I would say.
I'm drawn to a blackened sky as I turn blue.

There are no flowers, no, not this time.
There will be no angels gracing the lines,
just these stark words I find.

I'd show a smile, but I'm too weak.
I'd share with you, could I only speak,
just how much this hurts me.

I cannot stay here. I cannot leave.
Just like all I loved, I'm make-believe.
Imagined heart, I disappear.
Seems no one will appear here and make me real.


I'd tell you how it haunts me,
I'd tell you how it haunts me,
(Cuts through my day and sinks in to my dreams.)
I'd tell you how it haunts me,
(Cuts through my day and sinks in to my dreams.)
You don't care that it haunts me...

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(afi : this time imperfect)

<font color="#000000" size="1">[ July 08, 2006 03:01 PM: Message edited by: fishhook grief (i'll catch you) ]</font>

<center>("why lie, i need a beer" posts)

He climbed up the concrete steps, extending his arm out the other older man in from of the door.

A letter sealed was held tightly between his finger tips.

"Excuse me sir, can you give this to Margaux?"


---


( Three hours later )

Charlie's forehead was stamped to the leather steering wheel while he was parked outside of her building. He had fell asleep to the sound of Beck leaking for the audio system. Aside from the two whistle blowers who walked by earlier, no one bothered him. People were pre occupied with their own matters. And so was she.


----

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Margaux,

My father said there's people who like to work for others and people who work for themselves. I never liked working for the man and if I had my way I'd live the rest of my life without ever having to put on a suit.

I didn't really enjoy our last episode. It wasn't your fault, I just didn't really like that James character. In fact I didn't like him at all, I thought he had some nerve telling me to go fuck myself. I'll slit his face if I ever see him again. However, I think James is a better match for you. I'm not a good person, honestly but I'm trying. I just thought you should know.

This is probably my darkest hour right now. My mother died and I lost my job. I've been staying in a motel for five days and it won't be before long until I run out of money. You'll probably find me prostituting myself on one of these corners, just waiting pick up a case of HIV. Ha, I'm absolutely pathetic.

I don't need for you to feel bad for me. I just felt that I should tell you all this. You're possibly the only person I can talk to and it's a shame that you think I'm cruel. I knew you would be important that night I met you in the lobby. I don't think I'll ever forget that night.

Love,
Charlie

She didn't know what to think. Jimmy told her he slept with some girl after he left the day he met Charlie. They were both angry, Margaux watching her own reflection in the window while she smoked a cigarette. He gave her an ultimatum (she was expecting one sooner or later). She said it didn't matter, he was probably going to leave her apartment looking for a cheap fuck anyway. She didn't even bother looking for the disgust on his face when the door slammed behind him. It was all boring heartbreak to her, and she didn't feel like dealing with it.

She drank the whole bottle of expensive French wine he brought over (some celebratory bullshit for the three new cars he bought, impractical accessories for New York City or maybe just a nice way of trying to get laid). She wasn't crying. No. She wasn't drunk enough.

She was watching a rerun of Friends in that wondrous bend of her white sofa, waiting for Charlie to come home.

But she didn't have to wait too long.

Charlie stumbled up the steps leading to her door. He was completely sober and completely aware of his surroundings. If he leaned over the banister he could see that same neighbor of hers muttering into a phone. The two glanced at one another and exchanged the common gestures of "hello." Her neighbors really made him nervous.

Wrestling with the brass door knob, the man of the hour finally slipped inside. He saw Margaux doing whatever it was she doing, with her attention on the television.

"Are you hungry?" He landed in the kitchen, organizing the dishes in each cabinet.
"I've already ate, but if you were I'd go and get you something." Once finished with his evening chore he took of his jacket, tossing it aside over the arm of the sofa. Upon approaching her he noticed that bottle of wine that had not been there before he went about his day. He climbed over her lap and sat down beside her. She was never sober.

"I'm gunna take a shower. Try to think of something."

"No. I can't even think about food. I feel sick. Fucking James came over. We got into some stupid argument. He told me I had to choose. It's either him or you."

Her mouth was stained and she put a bitter-wine kiss on the side of his head. There was no time for sobriety. She barely missed it, especially during a winter like this one. She craved normal weather, whatever the fuck that was. The French wine was starting to beat down on her brain -- the migraine slowly aching it's way in through the membrane.

"I missed you. Why do you always have to leave? Why can't you always stay right here with me?"

She was so sad, green eyes melting into their lids. Her head lulled back, thank God for the backrest. She felt like she'd be happy if her neck snapped, happy if she was in a hospital bed like Pamela; the handful of people who knew Margaux saying a couple nice things just in case she could hear them.

She wanted to laugh. Almost. But she held it all in, not even wanting a cigarette as she leaned into Charlie, nuzzling his arm, wanting him to tell her he'd love her forever (a sick fantasy that replayed in her head). Did she have any leftover Vicodin in the medicine cabinet?

Hearing his name would not send him in some sort of jealous rage, that was not his style. Afterall, Charlie did suggest she reconsider bitter feelings for the poor child. He watch the program cut into a string of commericals: Car insurance, Dennys, cheap attornies, Tide, tampons, etc., etc. His eyes fell on too her pitiful face.

"Me or him, me or him?" Charlie slouched in the seat, biting down on his thumb. "I guess that'd all depend on who's better in bed." Maybe that wasn't the answer she wanted to hear. Maybe she wanted Charlie to spit out a list of reasons why he was worthy of having her, she was a wicked little thing.

He slid off each shoe, one by one, placing the sneakers below him.

She smirked. "It comes down to who's better in bed? What a male thing to say." She laughed, not sure if it was the comment or the wine. She touched his face, her fingertips were almost a bitting cold. She was so glad she wasn't alone to fend another night by herself. It got rough sometimes -- having all these lovers and no one to stick around.

"We can only take each other for so long. But I'm here with you right now, right?"

"What do you mean, we can only take each other for so long?" Her green eyes filled with suspicion. "You're going to leave me, aren't you?" This was a piece of history, this conversation. Her mother had once said those words. Margaux pushed herself off the couch, wrists cracking. "Once you get back on your feet, you're going to leave me behind." She was mumbling, looking through kitchen drawers for something, but what?

"I didn't say that, did I?" The tone of his voice made it obvious that he was short tempered. At least when it came to silly accusations. But were they actually silly? Charlie didn't plan on leaving, or did he?

He lazily lifted himself, meeting her at that counter. "Look," he swung her around, wrapping his hands tightly around her forearms. "I didn't say I was going to leave you, okay?" He couldn't look more sincere. "You're twisting things. I meant...look...when I get a new job we'll move some place better. I'll still be with you. You liked Pam's? We'll find some place better but you gotta promise me something. Just don't be like your mother."

"With the secret hiding place and everything?" She whispered, hipbone uncomfortably jabbing the corner of a drawer. She didn't move, not one inch. Charlie always seemed to get her attention and hold it (at least for one long moment).

"The secret hiding place and all."

With a sigh she closed to drawer full of utensils. What was she looking for? ... Her eyes ached across Charlie's face like he was her best work of art yet. "Don't be like my mother? I can barely remember what she was like." Oh, she knew what he meant, but she was no good with promises and she couldn't afford to lie. Not right now, not with his fingers digging into her forearm.

The wine made her taste buds cringe. Made her entire mouth sour.

"What if I can't stop it from happening?"

When he felt her eyes on him, his were sealed shut. He brought his hands down and shoved them into the pockets of his jeans. His forehead was stamped against hers, and there was a sudden outburst of laughter.

"Well I don't know. But I don't think I'd be too happy."

"Oh yeah? Would you cry if I drowned in a bath full of my own blood? Would you call nine one one and tell them you didn't suspect I'd do such a crazy thing? I bet no one would have anything nice to say about me at the funeral."

She meandered over towards the kitchen sink. Why was there always a window here? Why did she see her devious smile cut into the glass? The baby's breath in a blue cup on the sill was crispy with death, and she finally took the time to throw them away.

Charlie hopped onto of the counter, rubbing his index finger across the smooth surface. He paid no attention to her reflection in the window, rather, the refridgerator facing him.

"Well I don't know about that, I didn't cry when my own mother died. But I'd certainly call the ambulance." He played with the faucet, turning both the hot and cold water on and off. "People would come to my funeral just to make sure I'm actually dead. You too right?" He could imagine Margaux smuggling blow in her purse and snorting lines in the bathroom while the sad mothers tried to quite their crying babies.

"I'd go to your funeral, maybe even say some kind words. You know, something like -- He was an asshole, but I loved him more than anything. Something like that." It scared her to think of looking down at his waxen face, trying to remember what he looked like when he was happy but failing.

He looked at her profile and her tender lips. He wondered what she'd look like in pearls. He wondered what she'd look like in labor. No not now, his food hadn't settled.

"What would you do if you found out you were pregnant?"

This talk of pregnancy made her feel a little uncomfortable. Why was it that no one ever remembered to use condoms in the heat of the moment? Why did people still believe in the pull-out method? Were they just sick in the head? Was it a glitch?

"I'd coax a 9mm into my mouth and hope for the best."

She was kidding. Really.

He pinched the brown, furry patches that had formed along his jaw line. Charlie made a vow that he'd never shave until he found it absolutely necessary. He thought back to what she said and hadn't said about her mother's death.

He smiled, in agreement. "I think I'd do the same." He knew she was kidding.

They wasted the last hours before sunset discussing the future and he thought it was all pointless. He prayed that she never asked him again if he thought about leaving, because he'd have to lie. Truth be told, he loved her enough to keep a distance. The sex was better when they missed each other. That was a selfish way of thinking but that was what their relationship solely relied on. It had in the beginning. No Charlie, don't believe that.

He glided across the floor and walked through her bedroom and inside the bathroom. The showerhead squeeked as the water came blasting out. He examined himself in the medicine cabinet, slowly touching his cool flesh.

"Margaux," he called. "I think I'd take the bullet train if you were carrying my child. It'd be the anti-christ."

She was leaning against the doorframe, appearing like a haunting dream in the mirror of the medicine cabinet. She was breaking apart pieces of a baguette. The brie was left in the fridge. She gave him a thoughtful glance, a shrug of shoulders. "I hope you don't really think that." Softie.

"You know what I think? That we should shut up, and then you should undress me. And we can forget about funerals and the anti-christ." Her voice laced with those most vulgar of intentions.

It was just a suggestion.

<center>( European Holiday )</center>

[ day three ]

The apartment had been vacant since last November. Last she heard the couple that moved in had a very messy breakup. Margaux was upset to hear that one of the original doors?had?been broken, splintered in the midst of a brawl. Boyfriend walking in on girlfriend with so-called school project partner partaking in red wine and more than just healthy flirting.?He was Italian, she was spoiled. Or so Gregory had written in a short letter to her when the couple decided to lease the apartment for a year. Now, don't get this place confused with any other -- this was THE apartment. THE apartment that Margaux's mother tragically met the blade. THE apartment that she hated and loved almost equally; the clawed tub, crown molding, white distressed furniture, maple hardwood floors, French country charm all found in a sweet Parisian haven.
?
Margaux brushed the curtain aside, smoke dancing around the French doors rather than adventure on the narrow balcony. Cold daylight flashed across the right cheek, she caught a glimpse of Charlie.
?
They had shared a calm Valentine's Day together. She took him to the Eiffel, although he seemed generally unpleased to be swarmed around dozens upon dozens of Americans seeking romance on this landmark. Margaux attempted to cook dinner (but ended up overcooking the chicken), they shared creme brulee and coffee at a cafe that played live jazz until 2 am. The inevitable Hallmark Holiday sex in the cafe restroom (typical Charlie-Margaux). More importantly, Margaux had gotten reacquainted with her hometown, and loved how everything was in this moment.
?
His eyes slowly drew away from the television, half-focusing on her, mostly intrigued by the disarray of clouds that sponged up any blue sky outside.
?
"What?"
?
"I don't want to go back to New York." She seemed withdrawn, small, voiceless (she almost didn't want to admit these thoughts that led to darkness between them). Leave it up to Margaux to ruin everything.?Silence fell between them for several moments, only the sound of cartoons and the bustling city life reverberated against the walls.
?
"What are you going to do,?sit here in this depressing apartment, soaking up depressing memories?"?They?already had this conversation before in Miami. There was the same edge in his voice, the same scoff. "Or better yet, be only?four miles instead of the Atlantic Ocean away from George."
?
"Gregory."
?
"So, that's it! You still love him."
?
"I adore you. You know that." A good way to dodge to the accusation. She had almost flown across the room, cigarette still in tow, wrapped into him, nuzzling the vein at the side of his neck. [love me, love me, please love me.]
?
He looked detached. She suspected he was ready to shove her off his lap. Margaux slowly peeled herself from him (there was no more room for rejection here anymore), blowing smoke in his direction.
?
"What about George?" His face was twisted in an angry pout (too cute for her to ignore).
?
"Fuck him. I love you. I fucking love you."
?
He stared her down. Charlie had a way at looking at Margaux that felt like a hard slap on the face. But she knew how to handle it now, smoking her French cigarette with a?grave upward tilt of her mouth (a woman's smile is a secret thing). "Don't ever forget it," she murmured before leaving to draw herself a bath.

( day four )

That morning call from the alarm clock hollered in his ear. Their time in France was more than half way over. Charlie was more than thrilled about the day they?d finally be able to pack and continue their trip in Europe. He slid his narrow torso from underneath the sheets, resting his bare back on the oak headboard. Margaux laid to his left, forcing him to wake up on the wrong side bed. Typically, they faced the window, wrapped in each other?s arms. However, the morning after a heated argument, an invisible blockade had been cemented through the middle of the spread.

He flipped through the channels from the television hanging about the dresser. Margaux would sometimes interpret everything out for him. He studied the language in High school, only that had been more than eleven years ago. The most French she taught him consisted of filthy words and suggestions. Aside from the bakery and the Louvre, the city of Paris was tad overrated. Somehow Margaux was gradually falling in love with it more each day. It was a place for those romantic at heart; something Charlie just was not.

?I?m going to France.?

?What??

?I?m going to Paris, France. The tickets are on the counter.?

?I don?t know how I feel about that. You?ll be going to a place where men named Pierre and Jean-Claude seduce whores like you with art.?

?Don?t be silly Charlie. I want you to come with me."

It seemed like a bad idea from the beginning. And he was stuck.

?Sweetie, why don?t you flip that TV off and go back to sleep. At least for me.? He looked down at her, resting peacefully. He could?ve smacked her across the face the remote control.
?What?? He asked, sarcastically turning up the volume.
?I said quit feeling bad for yourself.? Charlie cooperated with the woman, turning the television off at once.
?That?s not true. I?m not feeling bad for myself.? He muttered.
?Okay Charlie.?
?Honestly,? He?d pound his clinched fist onto the nightstand before tucking himself in those satin sheets.
?In fact, you can go to hell. You and George for all I care.? He shut his eyes.
She rolled over, interlocking her fingers with his, playfully planting a kiss on his nose.
?That?s nice baby. I?ll see you there along with my mother.? She dropped her head onto his shoulder while she curled her cold leg round his. ?You seriously have no idea how much I?m hating you right now.?

[ day five ]

The metal felt slippery in her palm, cold and unsettling. Charlie was complaining how she wasn't holding the umbrella high enough, and Margaux tried to compensate for the height difference (no stilettos today) but Charlie took over. She was relieved. Hands struggled for a moment before they settled in her pockets. She was afraid that she'd get too wet if she leaned against the green rail (there was so much to see). Rain fell in peaceful sheets, the bridges were magnificent and she entangled her chilled fingers with his.

"Charlie?"

"Yeah?"

"I don't want to stay here."

"Lets take off then. I need to buy some smokes." Paris had that affect on people.

She shuffled through her bag, setting a cigarette between his lips. He had his own lighter. "No. I mean...I'll go wherever you go. Nowhere else." In all seriousness. She was looking out in the water, and then she felt him.

He rested his forehead against the side of her head, closing his eyes tightly. Silent appreciation. He kissed her temple before stealing this moment of affection to take a crisp drag. "I like you in flats."

"I feel short."

"You are short." He pulled her from the waist with one arm, and she snatched the cigarette from him for her own gain. Before she got a chance to exhale, the umbrella was dropped to the pavement. He pressed his mouth against hers, small whisps of smoke seeping out from their embrace. Her head lulled back, smoke rising from the cave of her mouth before she smiled up at the grumbling sky. She laughed and Charlie grinned as they soaked up Paris rain.

( Au revoir . )

Charlie waited patiently for his date while she took a quick body rinse in the bathroom. He occupied the maple rocking chair facing the blank television screen. It was their final evening in Paris. The evening before they experienced Amsterdam when it poured; two nights before they met Collins and in London. There was a reason he hated France.

?What time is it?? Margaux asked from the shower, hollering over the bullets of water.

?Six?seven, no six.? He kept forgetting that his watch was an hour fast. The telephone on the nightstand began to ring. Once. Then twice.

?Charlie get that. Bonjour.? Charlie slowly brought himself from the chair to take the call. He brushed her off.

?What??

?Hello, who is this?? The anonymous voice on the other end was bold and European. There was a slight hesitation upon hearing Charlie.

?Excuse me?? Charlie glanced at her vague image through the thick glass. He wondered if she?d been expecting such a phone call. ?Who are you??

?Gregory. Who is this??

?Hm.?

?Who?re you??

??Patrick.?

?Patrick?? The Frenchman repeated.

?Yeah.,? Charlie sighed. ?Patrick.?

?Happy Valentines day, Patrick.?

----


?Oh! Keep up, sucker.? Margaux taunted Charlie--defeating him at a round of tic-tac-toe--as they sat at the station. Finally they had escaped from that pathetic city once known to her as home. Their last night was Valentines. They walked to the balcony. They kissed in the rain. They made love on a train. They made love once they got to the house. Charlie had a word with Gregory over the telephone. That was another reason he hated Paris.

?Charlie,? Margaux crossed her legs, hooking her arm with his.

?What?? He dropped the ink pen into his coat pocket.

?Who is Tonka??

?He works with Collins.?

?Are they lovers??

?No. Tonka?s straight. British, but straight.? What were they talking about, Charlie thought.

?Why do they call him Tonka??

?They called him that during his rugby days.?

?How old--?

?Twenty-five. Where does Gregory live?? Charlie abruptly asked.

?Why??

?Because. He called you last night you know. While you were in the shower. He--?

?Oh. What did you say??

?--told me happy Valentines day. Don?t interrupt me please. That?s rude.?

?And that?s why you?ve been so short this morning.?

?No,? He hissed. ?It?s not. I?m pissed because I left my burgundy sports coat in Paris.?

?It really looked nice on you.?

?You bet it did.? Charlie slouched down in his seat. ?And Gregory. You can ask him in person why he won't be giving you anymore phone calls.?

[ Day Eight ]
?
The city built on water. Margaux had somehow managed to convince Charlie to go on one of those ridiculous boat rides around the city, where both locals and tourists greet you alike -- drugged smiles, leisure waves. Amsterdam, like most places around the world, was relatively cool in temperature. Margaux was bundled up in her peacoat, Charlie smirking from the corner of the boat.
?
"What did you say to him?"
?
"Don't worry about it."
?
"You didn't threaten to kill him or anything, right?"
?
"And if I did?"
?
"Then I'd love you forever."

That got a smile out of Charlie before the tone in her voice shifted.

"I don't want to go to London."
?
"It's too late. We're taking the Eurostar."
?
"I don't like that Collins fellow."
?
"He's a good enough guy."
?
"He likes you."
?
"Are you jealous?"
?
"I'm very jealous. You're mine."
?
"Did you forget that I'm straight?"
?
"That doesn't make me feel any less threatened."
?
"Get over it."
?
"You obviously don't know women."
?
"Not really, but I do know you, and I think that's good enough."
?
"Oh yeah? What do you know, smarty-pants?"
?
"That you're extremely jealous for no reason."
?
"Is that it?"
?
"No. I know more. You like it when I bend you over an--"
?
"Shhhh!"

They were starting to catch the attention of a few Americans huddled on the same end of the boat, especially when Margaux pulled out a joint with a "Tada!" Charlie plucked it from her fingers. After some whining and putting her cold hands up the back of his shirt, he surrendered and lit it up for her. It is Amsterdam, after all.

( day eight )

?Well keep up, sucker.? said Charlie, looking over his shoulder at Margaux as she trailed far behind him. Charles stopped at the newsstand, right outside where they had been staying. They were doing a pretty good job avoiding the grimier parts of town, though Margaux insisted they went somewhere wild.

?You walk too fast.?

?You walk too slow.? Charlie looked down at the girl, breathing heavily beside him. Each of them grabbed a magazine, scanning through the pages. Charlie picked up one of the smut publications, scratching his nose as he flipped over the imagines.

?I swallowed my gum,? Marguax nudged him, sticking out her hand. ?Give me a stick.?

?Your breath doesn?t stink. Besides, I?m all out.? He looked thoroughly through the magazine, licking his lips at what was flattering.

?You?re really into that, huh?? She stood on her toes, anxious to share his excitement.

?Nah--? He paused, coming across a photograph of healthy girl with short, albino blonde hair. She wore a velvet robe and sported a pistol in each hand. Her cheeks were flushed and he could see the innocence in her eyes. Above her in bold letters were the words: AMERICAN BEAUTY: An inside look on Nora Palmer. Charlie desperately search for change in his pocket.

?Charlie, you?re going to buy that?? Margaux gasped, patting him across the wrist.

?Come on, how much do you have?? Glancing at the owner, money no longer seemed to be an issue, as he was distracted by a phone call.

?What is it?? Margaux asked, snatching the magazine from him. Charlie looked around, preparing to split.

?On second thought, never mind.? He hurried away, the magazine still at hand.

?That girl, ?Nora Palmer?,? he said while they walked swiftly up the sidewalk. ?That?s my sister.?

[ Day Ten ]

It was getting old fast. Charlie and Collins and his colleagues and round after round of cocktails, beer, whatever Englishmen drink on chilly afternoons. Stupid jokes, politics, subject after subject that she didn't have a single opinion on. Margaux had made the stupid mistake of coming along, although Charlie didn't sugarcoat it for her -- "You'll probably be bored out of your mind."
?
"But I want to be there with you."
?
"Whatever you want."
?
They didn't have champagne, so she settled for beer on tap. After three forced sips she ended up sliding it over towards Charlie. He shrugged, not necessarily minding the adoption of her brew. Then there was the overly strong cosmopolitan and the bartender smirked and said "A wot?" Most likely just to tease her. She didn't look pleased and then man mumbled, "New Yorkers" under his breath and she replied in French. He didn't understand (or maybe he did) -- the fucker --because he smirked and said "French bitch." Damn straight.
?
She downed the drink (it was stronger than she would've liked), staring the bartender in the eye and nearly braking the martini glass on the counter when every last drop was gone. She whirled around and strutted up the Charlie. "I'm leaving. I'm fucking bored of Englishmen." There was no time for response (Charlie's big grin frozen), she was out of that dark creepy place and out in London streets, dialing Gregory's number.
?
"What did I tell you about Canadians?" His voice shaking with laughter, "But I got to go mon cherie. Au revoir." Click. A moment of weakness shut down.
?
It was getting old fast, Margaux alone and weaving between buildings, kicking the empty pack of cigarettes down the street. A cab ride, a British souvenir at the bottom of her purse. It was getting old until she met Anderson. She was laughing (it was lightly flirtatious), and he was telling her the fourth British joke of the evening. "So... There were two--"

It happened so quickly, Margaux didn't have time to think. Anderson's eyes wide open. Anderson against pavement. Blood. Fists. Grunts. He wasn't moving, his limbs still. Her head was spinning and Charlie extended out his hand to her and she took it. His lungs were burning, his knuckles stunned.

"Lets go," he said and they walked hand in hand back to the hotel.

<center>[ logs of charlie and margaux. new york, new york.]</center>

Fallen ashes from the cigarette piled up in the glass tray planted on the nightstand. Mr. Doherty had been sitting there in bed all day. He watched television, he browsed through a couple of catalogs. Margaux stepped out to take care of her duties. That was good, they needed a break.

The shattering rattle of keys in the door swung open, two bags held in her arms like twin toddlers. She kicked the door closed, completely forgetting about seven jagged pieces of metal and a weed leaf key chain (Charlie had bought that for her in an Amsterdam coffeeshop). The bags leaning like Pisa on the island, Margaux broke into a box of gushers (it was over now, the box would never close properly).

His eyes were quickly drawn onto her, making such a speedy entrance. "...Hello." He returned to the television, flipping through the stream of ESPN channels that came with their cable package. "I didn't even notice you---" college hoops, college hoops, "--didn't even notice you leave. Where'd you go by the way?"

The package almost exploded. Watermelon (it doesn't really taste like that red treat, but it was still good) drizzled on her tongue, over tastebuds in delight. "Post Office. Grocery store. A hotel by Central Park." Listed off with minimal enthusiasm, more gushers stuffed in the cave of her mouth.

He snarled. "A hotel, really?" Charlie tossed his pillow at the edge of the bed, then pulled himself up to rest against the wooden headboard. "Who'd you visit?" He was careful not to show too much concern, though the idea of her escaping for an 'afternoon delight' upset him greatly. "Someone special? Anyone I know?"

"I wouldn't call him special unless I was maybe looking for a bone marrow donor." She smiled dryly, setting the leftover gushers on the dresser. Fingers struggled to unhook her hoop earrings. She kicked off her discount Manolos, looking like she was on the verge of a mental breakdown. But it was calm, so calm.

Should he feel relieved? "When'd you become such a comedienne?" He reached over for his sweatshirt, draping it over his torso (once again, she had left the windows open). Charlie still hadn't shaved. "Join me. Take a--load off." he snickered, patting the space occupied by loose papers and magazines.

"There's no room in the web you've created." Her tired mouth tumbled into a faux-pout. She threw her hair up into a messy bun, with little help from the mirror of the vanity. She almost tripped on her sling-backs, finding the pack of Gauloises. "It smells like a fucking ashtray in here," she complained, a strike of a match and the inhalation of foreign smoke.

Charlie frowned. "You know, Margaret---excuse me---Margaux" He chuckled (Margaret was the redhead he supposedly had an affair with in London) "how would you like it if I slammed your face into it?" his tone was cool and casual. Everything was casual. "Your attitude is has been so---nasty lately. I don't know if I want to pound you or pound you."

"Margaret?" She was standing by the window, darkness shuddering through her apartment. "Margaret? WHO THE FUCK IS MARGARET?" She was screaming. Cigarette between index and middle, she wanted to burn his eyes out (this would be the first time she ever thought this). She kept her distance, nostrils almost flaring, eyes narrowed in a nice little glare.

"Whoa, whoa." he raised his hands into to protect himself. "Relax, she's Lincoln's niece. She's like, I don't know, fourteen (seventeen, but Charlie did like them younger). "Can you uhm...please have a seat or something. You're making me nervous." He knocked the books out of the way, though sitting next to him was probably the last thing she wanted to do.

She didn't budge an inch, she could feel the cold glass through her long coat. Her fingers were shaking. It wasn't just the slow drip of winter -- no, it was this moment. It was Lincoln's niece. The smoke drawn out of her mouth in slow angry swirls and streaks. "You're a fucking asshole, do you know that? I was counting on that fact to always get the truth from you. And now you're a fucking asshole with no backbone. That's really great, Charlie. This is just a wonderful day." She paced back in forth for a moment before standing still once again.

"Weekend at Bernies's" Charlie muttered. He really loved that film (he was in love with John Cusack and Andrew McCarthy---in a completely hetrosexual sort of way). The spotlight would shift on Margaux. He wanted her to remove her coat. She was probably packing a pistol. He had no bullet proof vest. "What do you want me to say? She's Lincoln's niece, I bummed a cigarette off her at the GQ party and I played tennis with her. That was it." That was all though they planned for more. He planned for more. He wanted more. "Margaux, that girl is like, sixteen years old." He choked. "---fourteen years old."

"Yeah. Right." Her cigarette was one long stem of ash, the tears in her eyes were burning bright, her vision nearly tarnished. She blinked them back, or at least tried to, rubbing a few that strayed with the back of her hand. She turned so that all he could see was her profile. "You know, I told my father about you today. He asked if you made me happy. He bought me a drink at the Four Seasons, and he asked me the stupidest of all questions." She shook her head and headed to the kitchen to chop some celery.

He laughed---at the movie. What a cinematic masterpiece. "Margaux, that wasn't a stupid question. But I'm sure you lied. You said yes because he's your father and you hadn't seen him in ages and saying you're happy with your current boyfriend is like...so expected. My father asked what I'd been doing with myself and I told him I was fixing to get engaged." He paused. "Margaux, you wanna marry me? Now don't get me wrong here, this isn't a proposal---but you wanna marry me. Seriously."

It was a beautiful thing -- a studio apartment, being able to shimmy out of her coat and chop celery and still look up to see Charlie watching his movie, talking about marriage. She chopped harder, she chopped faster. "Are you bringing up marriage right now to get my mind off sixteen year old, no wait, excuse me -- fourteen year old Margaret? It's not working, Charlie. It's not fucking--" Someone was knocking at the door. Margaux with sharp knife still in tow, swung the door open to see one of the other tenants jingling her keys, smile melting off his face. Bad time? She put on her best fake smile. "Thanks, Eddy." Door closed shut, dead bolt in place, knife pointed at Charlie. "It's not fucking working."

"Margaux. I can not believe you. Do you have any idea how many women from here to California would drop their panties for me? I don't think you do. I mean, I know that sounds like the most cockiest thing to say but---it's so true." He began twirling his beard. "Now, I know I could use a good shave but you could still find a few toothless broads in the most southern parts of the U.S that are just waiting to meet a guy like me. Margaux, I will buy you all the pearls and diamonds in the world. You're so lucky to have me. Heck, how many ties do I own? Refresh my memory, we counted a couple of nights ago. That's right, three-hundred and fifty two. Fifty three if you count the Paul Stuart one I ordered today. So baby, buttercup. Please snap out your jealous fit and put the knife down. Come give pookie some kisses and a nice backrub. You should be happy to have me."

"You're a sick joke." She muttered through an awkwardly blooming grin. She went back to chopping, little cubes of stringy green already too small. "Since I have no idea how to appreciate you, why don't you go back to Europe and marry Margaret. I'm sure she'd be really happy to have you. She could tell you all about high school and you can give her pearls and diamonds." It was true, she was in the middle of a jealous fit, a borderline jealous rage. Serrated blade looked quite friendly two seconds ago, pointed at him, at that beautiful pulsating vein at the side of his neck. Chop. Chop. "I hate you. God, I despise you. Yet I'm obsessed with you, and love you, and I'd rather kill you than share you. Shit, Charlie. I'm completely fucked."

He folded his arms, giving her a long hard stare. He was actually trying to imagine her carrying the name Mrs. Doherty. Somehow, she was starting to fit the part. "Of course you're obsessed with me." He lit a cigarette. "Margaux, Margaux, Margaux. I can see your face. You're so beautiful when you cry. And by the way, I love you too."

Charlie dried his hands and walked back out into the dinning area. As usual, as expected, a few he received smiles and winks from passing waitresses. He returned to their table located in the front of the restaurant. Charlie slid in the booth, removing his brown sport coat. "Cigarette?" he offered Margaux. The two hadn't exchanged a healthy amount of words since the mention of Margaret, and Gregory. Charlie tried to make their evening more pleasant, placing his hand over hers for comfort. She looked beautiful in the pearls he asked her to wear. "You look beautiful." He squeezed her wrist, leaning forward to kiss her on the cheek.

She glowed, oh how she glowed (and it wasn't particularly for her sake as much as it was for Charlie's). She worried sometimes that he would wake up one morning and stop loving her. Pearls drawn around an index, nearly choking off circulation. "Thank you." Elbow propped on the table (where were her good manners?), she seemed to alert to lean back into the plush booth. She held her breath for a moment, giving him a good once over. "You aren't looking so bad yourself." Amusement seemed to shine and fade, green eyes darting over to the approaching waiter. He barely had time to greet them (he did manage to squeeze in a 'how are you doing tonight' and a 'can I start you two off with anything?') before she was ordering a "glass of house red wine, please."

His eyes widen, noticing a middle aged couple--both men--making an entrance through the front doors. One wore aviator shades, with the same sport coat as Charlie. The other, had platinum blonde hair with a deep tan. "Christ," Charlie muttered. He brought the menu above his face, tapping nervously on the mahogany table. "don't look now, but it's Collins. And--his son. The one by his," he counted with his fingers. "fifth wife. Five wives before the moron realized he was a faggot." He brought his hand back to hers, palms sweaty, legs bouncing. He had no idea why he had grown so nervous. He sunk in the seat, still with the menu covering his face. Collins knew about the affair in London. Charlie prayed he wouldn't stop by.

She half-ignored Charlie's rambling about Collins, managing to also order herself a "Bellini, keep them coming..." before turning her head back to her lover. "It took him five wives before he realized he wanted to fuck you?" The waiter seemed to be puzzled by their topic of conversation. "And how did five women marry him without knowing every bone in his body is queer? What's wrong with their gay-dar?" She laughed, nearly throwing her head back. The waiter didn't know whether to excuse himself or not. It worried her how blank he starred at the two lovebirds. "Get him an apple juice and a tranquilizer, thank you." Blinkblink, and with that, he nodded and went to retrieve their order like a good dog. She leaned into the table. "Maybe we should call him over, no?" Not another moment to waste. She waved her hand frantically in the air. "COLLINS! Collins! Over here!" Sure enough, Collins eyes grew large with the sight of Charlie as he meandered his way over, son following him like a sheep.

"Margaux!" Charlie hissed. He was ready to snatch her up by the back of her neck. Drag her across the carpet, legs knocking against the tables. He wanted to toss her out over the pavement and stomp on her face until she had no more teeth. Until she could not see the pleasure in his eyes from torturing her. Instead, he smiled at Collins. The man invited himself inside their booth, wrapping his arm around Charlie's skinny shoulders. "Nice tie." Collins said, tugging on Charlie's article of clothing. "Thanks." Charlie replied, turning to look at the salt and pepper shakers. He released his hand from Margaux and placed it in his lap. His eyes shifted onto little Collins, timid to sit beside Margaux. Charlie noticed how incredibly handsome he looked. Nothing like Collins. "Whose pearls?" Lincoln asked, pointing at the girl.

"He made me wear them." Margaux smirked, absently lifting her chin in Charlie's direction. The wine glass never rested on the white tablecloth, it was immediately cradled in her palm. "You know, it's hilarious running into you two, Charlie and I had a conversation about young Margaret last night. Now didn't we, Charlie?" She didn't waste any time at all -- taking a sip from her glass, eyes locking on Collins for some sort of initial reaction. She had a hard time letting Margaret go. She could barely sleep for longer than two hours last night. She seemed unnaturally calm about the situation which was exactly what gave her away.

His eyes were focused on the damp napkin. His mouth was dry. The room was hot. He loosened his tie. He was thirsty. His mouth was dry.. Collins cleared his throat loudly, making it obvious that she hit a sensitive topic. "A fine tennis player, that Margaret. She's going to attend school here in the states. Brown I think. Right?" Collins asked, lighting a cigar. Princeton. Princeton was where she wanted to go. She told Charlie two nights ago over the phone. "Ha," Charlie laughed. "Well uh," he looked at Margaux, then back at the damp napkin. "I'm about as clueless as you are. We only talked for a few minutes after you introduced us. Nice girl." He looked across the table at the other young man. "I'm Charlie." He extended his arm, smiling. "I'm Charlie, and just fell six feet under."

"Oh, Charlie. You're so funny," she gushed, tapping the top of his hand with her own. Her attention shifted back to Collins, almost burning holes through his skull. She cut off the introduction. "Anyway, Charlie is sometimes so forgetful. He was telling me that Margaret is fourteen? Or did he say sixteen? Ha. I can't seem to remember. I guess Charlie and I were made for each other." Her lips smacked together into a bitter smile. She picked up the butter knife almost in a threatening manner before spreading some of the sweet yellow substance on a slice of warm french bread. She had no intention of actually eating it, her nerves were shot and she needed to put her focus elsewhere before she would lunge at Charlie, digging into his core with the blunt object, ripping his guts and intestines apart until it made slow slurping sounds, grainy organs spoiling and slick muscles hissing.

"Seventeen." Collins corrected her. Charlie sunk towards the ground even more. He began to crack his knuckles. He could feel a hand rubbing up his thigh. His smile faded, realizing that it wasn't the touch of Margaux, rather Collins playing underneath the table. He couldn't get over how handsome his son really was, and how he'd appreciate it much more if it was him trying to grab his crotch instead of Collins. The sneaky little shmuck. "Margaux." Charlie finally announced, changing the subject. "Is it just me or do we have a lousy waiter? I mean, how many times did he come by?" He glanced towards the kitchen. "Maybe you should flash a little cleavage and our food will be out before we know it."

She politely set the piece of bread on the little white porcelain plate. "I don't want to fucking eat. You're a fucking liar and I want to know all that I need to know about you and this seventeen year old little bitch before Collins confesses his undying love for you or I have to hang you from that--" she pointed towards the ceiling. "--beam from your tie. I will watch you die with pleasure before I leave this table without any answers." Yes... it was safe to say there was a good amount of tension at this booth which seemed to get smaller and hotter by the second. Everyone shifted uncomfortably, but Margaux pressed on. "Was she at least a hot little number? God, I hope she isn't better in bed than me, because otherwise I'd say you made a grave mistake by saying we should get married." Would she ever just stop? Was this night going to get more hysterical?

<center>[million dollar red heels.]</center>

The celery was already chopped, stirred into the tomato based sauce. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, hip jutting into the counter. Charlie's own protruding hipbone gently nudging against her, kissing her temple and resting a palm against the premature swell of her belly. She slowly turned to be embraced by him, her hundredth thousandth smile into a kiss. Charlie and Margaux had their moments, these quiet pieces that reminded them why they were still making this work. Otherwise, it was Charlie busy at work. Margaux painting and actually attempting to cook meals from scratch. She seemed to take a domestic dive and while it was somewhat fitting for her recent condition, it killed that free as a bird, champagne and sex kitten image she had supported for so many years.

Fingertips slipped down her thighs before he released. "I'm starved."

"It'll be just another forty minutes."

"Why don't we order in?"

"Charlie. I've been slaving for hours over this meal, and you want to get Chinese?"

By the time she turned around, she got the last second of his lopsided grin.

"You want me to believe you've been cooking for hours when you got celery and tomatoes in a pot?"

She playfully snapped the dishtowel at the side of his arm. "Fuck off."

"Baby...." Those eyes bled all over her,

And it was truly sick what a sucker she was for him. God damnit! "Go watch the game and I'll order."

He grinned gleefully. He won, after all. And right when he turned to leave the room, he paused and glanced at her again. "You're wearing your million dollar red heels."

She hesitated for a moment. "Can't a mother-to-be look gorgeous once in awhile?"

"Well... yeah, but--" Charlie abruptly stopped, shrugged, and went to go flip on the television. Margaux felt her face turn pink, and she turned on the sink to rinse off her hands. She had gotten so caught up in trying to get home to cook, she hadn't even thought about something as simple as shoes. Those million dollar red heels smirked back at her, and she kicked them off. These shoes meant business; why else would they actually have a four word title?

These shoes that she had worn out to a late lunch with James Theodore. Yes, the ex-lover had seemed to inconveniently reappear in her life. But they were just friends, she swore. Just friends. There was another woman in the picture anyway, and from what she collected, he was serious about the singer called Brooke. There were a million reasons why it wouldn't happen... besides the fact that Margaux was a train wreck when it came to functional men with hearts of gold. That's why she and Charlie were so good for each other.

<center>Midnight Whisper</center>

?Don't yew have a fianc?e??

?No.?

?She's pregnant.?

?I don't have a fucking fianc?e, what are you talking about??

?The French girl. She's pregnant.?

?You're way in Jersey, how do you know this??

?My Uncle. Yew broke his heart, lover boy.?

?Stop it.?

?Well, best wishes. I have to go.?

?Go where??

?Out.?

?With??

?Good-bye, Char--?

?Margaret.?

?Wot??

?Why are you going out so late? What's his name? Is he tall? Muscular??

?Why are yew doing this??

?I just want to know.?

?He's average. I have to go, really--?

?Look, I wanna see you again. I have to go to Toronto and I?ll take--?

?Go to bed, Charles.?

?Stop doing this to me.?

?Doing wot??

?I want you.?

?Yew have her.?

?Pregnant women don?t turn me on.?

?This is disgusting. Good-bye, Charl--?

?Stop.?

?Charles, she loves yew. And she's gorgeous.?

?I love her too. But you--?

?Good-bye Charles.?

"I'm a little worried about the lack of weight you're gaining. You're on the lower end, and it's in you and the baby's best interest to start eating for two."

"Yes, doctor." She seemed blank behind her nod.

"Have you started to think about names?"

"Charlie and I haven't really discussed it."

"Really." Doctor Sandra Blaskovich glanced up from the file, concern fleeting across her face. "Well, Margaux." She cleared her throat. "So far, everything is looking good. Just make sure to eat multiple snacks throughout the day. Lean meats, vegetables, the same thing as we discussed last time. And it's okay to give in to the occasional ice cream craving, hmm?"

Margaux nodded, feeling more naked than ever wearing that flimsy robe. Could the doctor see through her?

"I would like it for Charlie to join us next time. It's important that he's part of the whole baby experience. Don't you think?"

Margaux felt herself turn white. "Uhm. Yes. Well, he's been really busy at work, overtime has been killing him and..."

"I'm sure he'd love to be there for the ultrasound."

"Charlie?" Margaux calls in a tired whisper. While it's mid-July, she rests underneath the covers because the air condition is on blast. The room is dark.

"What? Hi." I remove my shirt, my watch, my shades. I place my key on the oak dresser, along with the lighter I carry (not because I smoke, because it's the best way to pick up girls).

"What time is it?" She draws a yawn.

"Eleven," I lie, it was actually a quarter after twelve. She wouldn't know the difference.

"Oh. How was it?" Her head rises from the pillow as she turns on the lamp beside her -- our bed. She never looks at the clock. Her hair is unorganized but I find it hot. If only she wasn't pregnant.

"How was what?" I play nice and crawl on the mattress beside her. She kisses my cheek.

"Dinner."

"I didn't go out to dinner."

"I know," she replies, smiling weakly. I think she wants to cry.

"Then why'd you ask?" My voice is very gentle.

"How come you never look at me?"

I look at her. "I do."

"Not like you used to."

"I look at you the same way I did..." I can't bring up a number so I recall a setting. "Miami. Beat me." I wink, and swing my legs off the bed so I can remove my pants.

"No you don't."

"Uh yeah."

"No," I answer, once and for all.

"Have you talked to her?"

"Who?" I laugh it off. "I don't know what you're--"

"Oh, Charlie." She buries her face inside her palms and I'm certain she's going to cry.

"What?" While the light is on, I notice how the military presses improved the tone of my arms and chest. I think to myself,
Margaret doesn't know what she's missing.

"You make me sick to the pit of my stomach, I love you so much."

I tuck myself between the sheets and reach over her body for the lamp. Dark again, I kiss her shoulder and say, "The feeling is mutual. Night-night, sweety."

<font color="#000000" size="1">[ July 14, 2006 01:20 AM: Message edited by: fishhook grief (i'll catch you) ]</font>

Six nights later.

"Why won't you let me in?" to your heart.

"What?" He yawned.

"Nevermind."

"You might as well just say it," he mused.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Fine." He sounded relieved.

Minutes passed. Charlie almost asleep, her eyes wide open. The hot July moonlight streaming through air conditioning in long ribbons. Her mind was racing, fingers tapping against the bulge under her shirt.

She seeped open in the dark. It's so much easier in the dark.

"You can't do this to me," she squeaked, thumb knuckle smudging the first timid tears.
Words slow, like feeding crumbs to the birds.

He stirred. "Do what."

"Come home and pretend like everything is okay."

"Lets talk about this in the morning."

"Do you know how much this hurts me? Do you?" No one could see the accusing glare.

"What do you want from me?" He seemed to be annoyed.

A long pause.

She was sobbing now.

He handed her a tissue.

"C'mon, Margaux..."

"I'm leaving you."

She turned the lamp on, flung the blankets off of her. Suitcase pulled out from under the bed. Charlie looked amazed.

"How long have you been..." He seemed to be a loss of words.



"The day I told you I was pregnant."


She swung the closet door open, taking out some of her winter sweaters. There was no time to fold.


"When you stopped coming home early after work."


She emptied her jewelry box into her Marc Jacobs handbag.


"When I had to start lying to everyone, not to mention myself."


Two undeveloped rolls of film, her passport, million dollar red heels.


"After looking at your cell phone records."


She seemed to be on the verge of laughter, throwing some sketchbooks in before zipping up.

He seemed to finally find his voice, still stunned in bed.

"Where will you go?"

"Does it matter?" She threw her hands up in the air. "Do you even fucking care? I'm doing you a favor, anyway."

She was in four inch tiffany-blue heels (the first she could find), and stood at the doorway, the slow formation of a taunting and cruel smile, holding her suitcase handle with two hands.

"Goodbye, Charles Doherty."

<font color="#000000" size="1">[ July 14, 2006 01:26 AM: Message edited by: fishhook grief (i'll catch you) ]</font>

"You're insane," I mutter. "Where are you going to stay? George's?" I'm blocking her path to the the front door, letting each lock disappear beneath my palms.

"Move, Charlie!" She shouts. The bitch can't even carry her luggage.

"Where will you go?"

"I don't know. I can't be with you. I can't stand to be with you. You make me--"

"'You make me sick.' I know, I know."

"Move!" She shoves me - hard - aside, grinding her teeth. I stumble into the wall. Storming forward, I latch onto her elbows, nearly shaking the life out of her. My eyes start to water, and I'm blasting the debris from my heart to her. Between some time or another, I ask myself if this is a dream. And before I can acknowledge reality, she leaves without kissing me.

30 days later.


"Margaux, like Margaux Hemingway?"

"Oui. If that's how you want to remember me. The dead girl stretched out in a Los Angeles coroner's slate ten years ago."

"I didn't mean for it--"

"It's okay, really."

"What happened to them?"

"To who?" She rolled the solo French cigarette on the table before picking it up and sucking the match's flame in.

"The Manhattan lovers." Shelley paused. "Should you really be smoking... I mean, is that healthy for the--"

"Toutes les tentatives ont ete des echecs complets."
all the time it was a complete failure.

"But I thought you said that..."

"Mais entre eux c'etait toujours... complicite. I don't know."
between them there was always complexity.

"Did she ever find love again?"

"No. Deux balles de 22. Vingt trois... et adieu."
no. two .22 bullets. twenty three... and goodbye.

"That's it? She just gave up?"

"That's it." Some ash landed on her lapel. "So, are we at an agreement then?"

"Fifteen hundred per painting, and the gallery will take six percent of sales. Although... The Manhattan Lovers painted series of three will be an exception. Twenty three hundred per canvas."

Days later, Margaux found herself eating glazed walnuts in front of Paris Dixon's art gallery, six months pregnant. The Manhattan Lovers series displayed right in the window. Although it was hard to make herself out in the oil, Charlie's face was unmistakable.

<font color="#000000"><font size="1">[ July 15, 2006 10:10 PM: Message edited by: fishhook grief (i'll catch you) ]</font></font>

<font color="#000000" size="1">[ July 16, 2006 02:05 AM: Message edited by: fishhook grief (i'll catch you) ]</font>

<center>one week later </center>

"Ahem, is Margaret there?"

"No."

"Yes she is."

"No, asshole, she's not. Ye can't call here anymore."

"Wait, who're you?"

"Bye."

The phone hangs up and I try back again. There's no answer. I try back one more time and there's still no answer.

From freedom, I turn right on misery and end up at my place in seconds. The space is quiet and depressing. I can still smell Margaux on my sheets, even after I've washed them eight times.

The light on my answering machine is blinking and I check my voicemail.

"Charlie," a voice whispers, then the message ends.

<center>http://i45.photobucket.com/albums/f9...ttanLovers.jpg

The Manhattan Lovers.

The Paris Dixon Art Gallery is pleased to present workings of Margaux Alixandrie. Although relatively new to the world of oil paintings, Alixandrie is no stranger to illustration. Her drawings are found in over two dozen French children books. We will be offering a total of eight paintings, as well as the magnificent series titled The Manhattan Lovers, both brilliant and moving. Her entire showcase is edgy, and we hope to see how she grows over time.

</center>

Margaux stood with her shallow glass of red wine. It was half past nine. The unveiling of her pieces was going well, over eighty of New York's most influential art celebrities/supporters had shown up.

Congratulated her.

"You can't be any older than twenty."

She had a blank smile.

"I'm sorry, I don't think we've been introduced."

He ignored her inquisition.

"All of New York is applauding you."

She still looked stunning, six months pregnant or not. In fact, there was a modest bulge if anything. She never left the house wearing anything but black.

"You flatter me."

"Tell me, Margaux, is that Charles Doherty in your most famous pieces?"

"Excuse me?"

"He was a colleague of mine. I actually ran into him a week ago."

She couldn't hide her curiosity.

"Oh?"

"Yes, he looked better than when I saw him last."

She looked heartbroken.

"When was that?"

"Why, when you two were together. Both fresh in Manhattan. You two lovebirds just came up from Miami. Wasn't that how the story goes?"

She seemed to be lost in the memory of Charlie and her pre-pregnancy.

"I suppose so." She became slightly uncomfortable.

"Some men never appreciate a beauty like you. Men like Charles. They get you knocked up and then leave you. I personally could never--"

"I don't believe that my personal life is any of your damn business. Excuse me, I have guests to tend to." Margaux spun on her heels and left.

<font color="#000000" size="1">[ July 18, 2006 10:10 PM: Message edited by: fishhook grief (i'll catch you) ]</font>

"I haven't heard from you in awhile."

She liked how he cared.

"I've been busy with my new paintings..."

"I heard about the success of The Manhattan Lovers. Congratulations."

"Thank you."

"I've been meaning to fly out to New York to see them. To see you."

"Sure."

"So... How have you been feeling?"

"Comme un oiseau sans ailes."
like a bird without wings.

"You sound just like your mother."

"Well, what can I say? I'm my mother's daughter."

"Don't scare me like that."

"Sure."

"You have to forget about Charlie and move on--"

"I'm hanging up."

"I know you thought it was lo--"

Click.

Her phone immediately started to ring again.

"What?"

"Margaux? It's Mischa, at The Paris Dixon Gallery?"

"Oh, yes. Hello."

"We've got a buyer for three of your paintings, but he insists on having you come down to receive payment. I think he'd like to meet the artist."

"Oh?" It seemed peculiar, but not impossible. "Sure, I'll be there in ten minutes."

She forgot all about her father and their conversation during the cab ride.

She stepped into the gallery, Mischa's contagious smile greeted her.

"I'd like you to meet Luther Smith, he owns Wilshire Publishing Company."

And it was no other than the supposed colleague of Charles Doherty.

"Why hello, Mister Smith." Margaux was not happy.

"Hello, Margaux. It's a pleasure seeing you again."

"You two know each other?" Mischa seemed shocked, before excusing herself to help a customer.

"I hope you don't mind me requesting your presence here. For I actually have come to bring you news." He couldn't of been any younger than forty-five. Dressed like a detective, and with a clever smile always in hand.

"Look, I really appreciate your interest in my paintings, but--"

"I thought about you last Friday. I was actually late to a dinner at Atelier. Speaking of which, have you ever had their Osetra caviar and--"

"I don't see where this is go--"

"Well, I happened to be on the Upper East Side, when I happened to run into our dear friend Charles. He was with a lovely woman, she looked just like a model. Legs that looked like they went on for miles. I stopped and chatted with him, naturally. I believe the girl's name was Natalie. She could not have been older than seventeen. Actually, I know for a fact that she was just too young for him."

Right then and there, Margaux thought she was going to be sick.

But he kept going on, much to his own delight.

<font color="#000000" size="1">[ July 16, 2006 10:23 PM: Message edited by: fishhook grief (i'll catch you) ]</font>

<center>Mischa and Luther</center>

"Mr. Smith?"

"Yes?"

"What did you say to her?"

"Nothing, but can you tell me something?"

"What?"

"Where does she live?"

"I..."

"Ah, forget it."

"I don't think now is a good time. She just got out of an awfu--"

"I'm not trying to marry her, I just want to see how she's doing."

"And you have to do that in person, right?"

"Look, I said forget it."

"I don't like playing matchmaker, but I can give you her phone number."

"I'll get a pen."

The Company of James Theodore.

"What did he do this time?"

"I don't know. I was looking through his--"

"Did he become too tame for you?"

"What?"

"Well. He must've started to bore you, or something."

"No. Just because things went wrong between us..."

"It was probably your fault."

"How could you say that?"

"It wouldn't be the first time."

"This was a mistake."

"Well, what are you waiting for?"

"Pardon?"

"Isn't it about that time to get up and leave another person behind?"

<font color="#000000" size="1">[ July 18, 2006 10:12 PM: Message edited by: fishhook grief (i'll catch you) ]</font>

<center>dinner at Atelier</center>

I can hear Mr. Duncan speaking to me but I'm not listening. My focus is tuned in on Charles Doherty and the young lady sitting across from him. I start to think about...


her.

<center>--</center>

I'm having dinner with Kim, an aquaintance of Margaret. She says she's a regular here and she shows me the best items on the menu. Sadly I can't pronounce them so she helps me. When I struggle she laughs and pinches my knee. I forget all about Margaret. Just for a minute.

"Chuck, you're so dopey," she says flirtatiously.

I smile back and this guy whose name I can't remember approaches our table.

"Charles. Hi."

"Hi, how's it going?"

"Fine. I mean, good."

"Chuck, you're so dopey," Kim repeats. I realize she has had one too many drinks. Fake IDs go a long way. "Introduce me." Kim daintily holds out her hand.

"Kim, this is..."

"Mr. Smith." He helps himself, kissing her knuckles. "Anyway, I spotted your...Margaux at her, uhm, exhibit. Boy does the canvas love you."

"Everybody and everything loves Charlie," Kim adds.

"No they don't, Kim," I correct her without a trace of amusement.

"Yes they do--"

"A friend?" Smith asks, pointing at Kim.

"Uh, yeah."

"Yeeess," Kim confirms. "We're strictly...friends."

"Right. You two seem...very friendly." He nods and sways in front of our table. I think he's trying to get at something but I don't feel very comfortable with him standing there, scrutinizing us. The asshole.

"Well...I'm going to use the restroom. I'll uh, excuse me." I leave. Perfect timing.<center>--</center>

<font color="#000000" size="1">[ July 18, 2006 09:21 PM: Message edited by: pot roast king ]</font>

"Don't you know who this is?"

"If I did, I wouldn't be asking."

"Luther Smith."

"Who?"

"Only the man who just paid your rent."

She was silent on her end of the telephone.

"I just paid you forty five hundred for three paintings."

She caught on.

"Oh. Yes. Right, Mr. Smith."

She paused.

"How did you get my number?"

He chuckled.

"Nothing to worry yourself over, Margaux. I'm calling to ask if you'd like to join me for dinner at Atelier this ev--"

"I apologize, Mr. Sm--"

"Luther."

"--Luther. I don't date clients."

"Well, first off, it's just dinner, my dear. And that's really a shame because I happened to get a little tip from the hostess that Charles is going to be there."

He was waiting for it.

"Charlie," she whispered into the receiver.

"I'll expect to pick you u--"

"I'll meet you there."

"Now, Margaux, what kind of gentleman would I be? I insist on picking you up at your home...."

She knew this game.

"Fine. Whatever." She gave him her address. This place was just temporary, right? This walk-in-closet of an apartment that she was renting on a month to month basis.

And just like that, Luther Smith, who so many women turned down because they thought his eyes were beady and black and that he was just downright repulsive, got a date with the it-girl of the New York art scene.

<font color="#000000" size="1">[ July 18, 2006 10:03 PM: Message edited by: fishhook grief (i'll catch you) ]</font>

Ladies Room. Toilet Stall Phone Calls.

"Margaret."

"What's up, Kim?"

"You wouldn't believe who I'm having dinner with at Atelier."

"Who?"

"Guess!"

"Uhm. Christian?"

"No! Guess again."

"That sales guy you like from Armani?"

"Guess again."

"Brad Pitt? Christ, why don't you just tell me."

"Charles Doherty."

"You're kidding."

"No! ... Look, this might sound really bad, but we've been friends for a really long time, right? And you're kind of starting a new romance with--"

"You want to hook up with Charlie?"

"You make it sound bad!"

"Well..."

"I mean, you said you were done with him. And you know that Christian and I have been on a really long break. I mean, I can barely tell if Christian is going to take me to the Hamptons like he promised two months ago. On top of all of that, I don't even know if I'm going to get into NYU, and you know how hard my parents have been on--"

"Fine, whatever, Kim. Just don't..."

"Don't what? I've got condoms in my purse."

"That's not what I was going to say..."

"Then what are you..."

"You know he's got a girlfriend."

"Not anymore."

"What do you mean?"

"Marge. Margo, whatever her name is... I think she's out of the picture."

"How do you know?"

"You should see the way he looks at me..."

"Kim, you know, uh, Charlie is sort of a..."

"I gotta go! He's going to think I fell in. I'll call you later and tell you all about it!"

<font color="#000000" size="1">[ July 18, 2006 10:33 PM: Message edited by: fishhook grief (i'll catch you) ]</font>

I meet her at her father?s brownstone. He is either in Paris, France or Paris, Texas. I figure they?re both the same. While I wait on her, I rummage through the cupboards for a pre-party snack. The items in the cabinet are mostly foods I?m allergic to, so I settle for a bag of unsalted pretzels.

?Charlie,? Kim calls from the back. She spends a lengthy amount of time prepping herself for tonight and I?m about to say ?screw it,? and hail a cab back to my place. Instead, to kill time, I phone Margaret to see if she answers since the call will be made from The Mackie?s line. After three rings she picks up.

?Hello,? she says. Her voice sounds exhausted and I wonder why.

?Margaret,? I whisper.

?Who is this??

?Guess.?

She sighs, ?Charlie, now?s not a--?

?It?s never a good time when I call you. How come you never answer when I call from my cell??

?I never answer? I wonder why.?

?That hurts, Margaret.?

?Where are yew?? she asks. I smile because I know things are starting to get interesting.

?Paul Mackie?s.? Kim?s father. ?I?m in his bedroom.? I was actually standing in the center of his kitchen.

?Charlie, yew dog. He?s a married man.?

?Ha-ha, very funny. Actually, I?m standing at the foot of his futon, watching Kim--?

?Okay,? she cuts me off, ?I really have to go. It?s not a good time.?

?I?m joking.?

?Right. But actually, Kimberly is a fine catch for yew. I mean, if only ye didn?t have a girlfriend.?

?Stop saying that. I don?t, she left me.?

?I wonder why.?

??I wonder why, I wonder why.? Margaret, you spend a crucial part of your day going back and forth with me.?

There was a momentary pause.

?Well Charlie, yew better tend to Kim before her high wears off. I don?t think she?s as loose when she?s sober.? Kim being sober was a rarity.

?Oh Margaret, you?re such a funny girl.?

?I know. Have fun Charlie.?

New Jersey : Margaret and Geoffrey

It's too soon to say it's love, right?

I mean... we've been dating for three, maybe four weeks.

But we've been friends since freshmen year.

Best friends.

That's how it became so easy.

"Why doesn't he just leave you alone?" I ask. I have the right to know.

We're at her dorm room.

She's cradling her face in her hands,

I'm pacing the room.

"Who is he, Margaret?" I ask with more force.

I love her. God, I love her. It's never been so clear,

even angry, even pissed off that this guy keeps calling.

This man. This Charles Doherty. He and his name is a plague.

"He's just... someone."

Not a very smart answer from a very smart girl.

"Come on. I know you can do better that that."

I'm kneeling in front of her, begging her with my eyes.

God, I love her.

I love her enough that if she had cheated on me with this

Charles Doherty,

I'd forgive her. I'd take her back in a heartbeat.

"He's... it doesn't even matter anymore, Geoffrey."

"It doesn't matter anymore." She says again, more convincing this time.

"I'm going to marry you one day."

She smiles, but it seems so weak.

I wonder if she's thinking about that punk Charles.

I kiss her.

I'm a bleeding heart.

I'm Geoffrey Newton, a psychology major.

I quote Freud all the time.

I play badminton and tennis on the weekends.

"Hold me," she whispers into my shoulder. "Please."

Margaret says she's saving herself for marriage.

I pull her into me, so tight, so close, I feel as if I'm going to crush her.

Margaret is the best thing in my life.

But sometimes I wonder,

when Charles calls after midnight,

if she ever had...

Nevermind.

<center> Brunch at noon. </center>


"These french fries are horrible," I mutter, pushing the plate aside. I'm having brunch with Mr. Wilson, my cousin. Mr. Wilson looks like a cross between Gwyneth Paltrow and Woody Allen. The cheeseburger the waitress places at the table's edge sits on a saucer. How cute, I think.

"You bet they are. We should've got the onion rings. The onion rings are pretty good."

"No, no. Their onion rings are shit in a bucket." An enormous glob of ketchup lands on the center of my turkey pattie.

"Yeah, shit in a bucket."

"Stop."

"Sorry."

The waitress stops at our table and asks, "How's your meal?"

"Terrific." I wink at her then look a Mr. Wilson. I call him Mr. Wilson because we're all professionals here. "How's Harriet?"

"Heather," he corrects me.

Same difference.

"I haven't had a decent amount of sleep. What is they say, eight hours."

"Yeah, seven, nine."

"I'm hitting five on a good day. Last night, I think I got in three."

"Club?"

"No. No, Hunter, I'm thirty-nine years old, do I look like I'd go prance on the fucking dance floor?"

"It was jus--"

"The lady. The artist. We had dinner and such. We slept together." But we didn't make love.

"Isn't she married? Isn't she pregnant?"

"Relax, nothing happened. And she's not married. Not even close. She's a sick puppy. She looks out the window, expecting one of her ex-lovers to arrive with a dozen roses." I was just getting started.

"That's...tragic, Luther."

"She laughed at my bowtie. She says she won't kiss me because she thinks my whiskers might poke her. She doesn't sing. She's learning how to cook. She'll tell me certain things but not everything. Did I mention she can't even cut her salad properly?"

"No, you didn't."

"She's an interesting girl."

"About Charlie."

Madame Raina ran a tight schedule, appointment only. Her reputation was impeccable; she had celebrity clients and extended her services only by word of mouth. She had been an exotic beauty in her heyday, jet black hair and Indian Ocean blue eyes. Now she was a little worn down on the edges and released a generally snappy flair. She was in one of her moods, staring down the girl that say across from her. A pregnant girl, nonetheless, cute as a squirrel.

"So, what do you want to know about Charlie?"

No crystal ball here. She was a better psychic than that. She didn't need props to dress up her talent. The table was rectangular and made of a fleshy dark wood. A deck of tarot cards unintentionally fanned at the edge of the table, and the girl's two hundred in cash.

"Whatever you'll tell me."

She paused.

"The game will never end. You alone cannot feed Charlie's ego, and it's the same way for you. Don't take this the wrong way, but you shouldn't ever have children. I would suggest you put it up for adoption."

"What?"

"Put it up for adoption."

"It's the antichrist, isn't it." She asked almost jokingly.

"What?" Madame Raina seemed shocked. "God. No, child. The baby is anything but that. If you keep it, you'll end up just like her."

"Her?"

"You don't want history to repeat itself, do you?"

"Not... really."

"That night you found her... it was intentional. You were supposed to learn something from it. Stay away from him. He'll only kill you. Slowly."

That, Margaux had to silently agree with.

"Fine." It seemed to weigh her down.

"You want to know if he still loves you."

"I do."

"He'll never love you as much as you love him."

"So, he does love me..."

"You're missing the point." Madame Raina was getting impatient. "Let him go. I don't know what really has gone on between you two, but I strongly advise that you listen closely. Let him go."

The pregnant lady asks me if I want to smoke some weed but I say no.

We sit on her bed and she's eating Twizzlers while I'm watching this movie on television with Kevin Bacon. The telephone rattles on her dresser but she doesn't pick up because she's too busy smiling at me.

"Where were you before when I was in Miami?"

"I was getting a divorce," I reply, sarcastically.

"Very cute."

"We just came back from dinner and you're eating those things?"

"I'm eating for two," she says. She doesn't look like it. When neither of us answer the phone, the machine picks up the call. We both turn and look at the blinking red light as the voice plays.

"Margaux, it's me. I'm not in New York right now, I'm in Europe with Lucas. Remember him? Anyway, I...I hear you've been seeing that guy uh...Luke...Lou...Luther. He's so lame. Anyway, I...I'll be home next week. We should talk. We need to talk, it's important. Uhm, so yeah...goodbye."

I'm the kind of girl that cries and the mascara runs.


"... Who is this?"

"Shut up, bitch." I'm down to a whisper: "You ruined my life."

"Uhm. I think you have the wrong number..."

"This is Margaret, isn't it?"

A long pause. An unnatural painful pause.

"Margo?" She says my name like I'm a dirty slut American like her.

"Is he there?"

"Who?"

"Who the fuck else?"

She chooses her words carefully. She's scared, I can tell.

Well, that's what she gets for playing big girl games.

High school whore.

"We don't talk anymore." She says it too quickly.

"I don't believe you."

"I.. don't..."

I DON'T believe her.

I hang up, and I walk down the hallway.

It's past curfew, all the little school children are tucked into bed.

I knock.

I knock again.

<font color="#000000" size="1">[ August 05, 2006 08:17 PM: Message edited by: a xxxholic's affair. ]</font>

She was feeling too sober as she dialed his number. She was out to dinner with Luther again, and had excused herself to use the pay-phone. The music and ambiance was muffled yet still apparent, and she was becoming more nervous every ring... should she just hang up and go back to the mango cheesecake Luther and her were sharing? She was relieved when his machine picked up...

"Hi. It's me. Margaux. I'm just..."

Charlie sat at the edge of the bed, flipping through the television channels. The A/C was on blast, causing his skin to crackle. The apartment had always seemed so empty since her departure. He hardly invited anyone over and when he did, their tour never went beyond the kitchen. The phone rattled on the dresser and he thought nothing of it, as usually, until her voice played. "I'm just.." Charlie pushed himself from the bed, darting for the cordless.

"Hi," he answered quickly, feeling his heart race.

A waitress shoved her way past her, and Margaux gripped the phone tighter. "Hi Charlie." As a hormonal woman, she had a hard time suppressing any sense of emotion in her greeting. She tried to get a hold of herself, but she was shivering. "I'm..." She took a deep breath. "I'm returning your call." A pause. "You said it was important," she reminded him, as if that meant anything in this moment, anything at all. She drew herself close to the wall, trying to not get distracted by the fleeting kitchen staff.

"Yeah..." He slowly returned to the mattress, sitting far and deep against the headboard. "Yeah," his tone changed, more upbeat. "I uh, it wasn't that important. I just wanted to see how you'd been holding up and stuff. I mean, we haven't talked in like ages." Nerves were hardly hidden in his chopped laughter. He hadn't exchanged words with her in months, of course he felt awkward. "I hear, I hear you're doing well. The art show and stuff. And uh, with your new beau. Lance, is it?"

She didn't bother correcting his name. "He's a client. He bought several of my pieces." He's no one compared to you, she wanted to say, but she didn't. She was embarrassed that she was spending as much time as she was with Luther. "I've been..." She was fighting between telling the truth or lying. "I've been miserable. Pregnant and miserable." An inaudible sigh.

"Pregnant and miserable? I'm sorry to hear that. Why are you miserable, Margaux?"

"I'm miserable because I'm more than six months pregnant and still want to wear high heels. I've been eating ridiculous amounts of sweet and sour pork and the people at the restaurant down the block from me give me three fortune cookies, one for the baby, me and..."

She could see Luther's concerned smile from twenty feet away. "I miss you. I miss you like crazy." She rushed it, seeing Luther's dark eyes narrow in on her.

She missed him? "You don't miss me," he assured her. "You're better off without me, believe it or not. I'm not worth it. I'm not at all. I'm a lousy boyfriend and I'll make a horrible father. You should be with that one kid, James. He was a fine young man. You miss him, okay? But not me. I'm nothing. I'm trouble. I'm worthless. No."

He said it all with a smile, cleaning his nails because he was thinking -- he was certain she'd tell him the opposite. She really was a sick puppy, and he enjoyed teasing her.

"Maybe that's why I miss you and not anyone else. But--"

"Where are you?" he asked, listening to the dishes clank and music blare from the background.

"Atelier." She could feel her ear turning red from all the pressure she put on the receiver. She didn't want to miss a single word. "Enough about me. How are you? How was Europe?"

"Europe? Oh, it was fun, I guess. Lucas lives there. He lives in Spain but he doesn't know how to order food. He's been living there for--" Since he moved in with her. "I don't know, a grip." Charlie could feel his muscles twitch. He wondered what she was wearing, where she really was, if Luther was around, and how many times she kissed him.

"Lucas." That brought a soft smile to her lips. "That kid should learn the language. The Spanish get angry when you don't know how to say por favor and gracias." She wondered if Luther was starting to fidget in his seat.

She put her hand on the receiver as Luther asked who she was speaking to. "It's Mischa. I thought that I left some important paperwork at the gallery. Will you go order me some tea? I'll be there in a few moments." By the look on his face, it didn't look like he believed her, but he went back to their table.

She was back on the line. "But anyway, Charlie, I think you should know that I'm giving the baby up."

Charlie didn't care much about anything. He didn't care about love or family. Just himself and money. And giving the baby up, at least to him, seemed like a great idea. He was awful. "You're not giving it up. You're testing me to see what I'll say. And well, I think since you're having it, you should make up your own mind. Right?" He cleared his throat. "Who was that back there, Lance? He's a really nice guy and all but he's really...I don't know, weird? You must be having horrible time."

She pursed her lips to keep herself from boiling over into fury. A change of subject.

"I paid Margaret a visit the other day. Her dorm was really lovely and so was her boyfriend. I mean, really, the boy just makes her glow, and he is just hilarious! ... To think I came there to bitch her out, and after five minutes, I couldn't even manage to be mad at her. We had some British cookies, I forgot what they were called -- and we exchanged horror stories about you. We're supposed to have brunch next weekend. I didn't even realize how close New Jersey was..."

His eyes widen in shock. His mouth began to tremble and he could feel his hands grasping tightly around the phone. 'What did you say about me?" he asked, trying to laugh it off. "Well actually, why did you visit her, and who told you where she lived? Hm? That wasn't a nice thing to do, Margaux. You can't go around scaring innocent girls like that. She wouldn't deserve your shit. But I'm glad the three of you hit it off. Her boyfriend is funny. 'Ha-ha funny' and well, faggot, funny. Mhm."

"Why, it doesn't really matter anymore, Charlie. It's silly really. She told me a few interesting things about you... and her uncle. It gave us a good laugh." She worried that if she prolonged this too much, Luther would be back. "Anyway, I really should go, since you really didn't have anything important to say. You're just the same disappointment from a few months ago, right? Take care, Charlie."

[ log. ]

11:13 a.m.

"Go away." She's begging, clutching the bottom of her hard belly, pain dripping through her bloodstream, she stifles a scream, magazine slapped onto the conveyor belt. She nearly topples over, she nearly crushes an old lady, thighs drenched with the splash of birth induced fluids. She wishes that this was happening to someone else, someone else who went to the grocery store for bananas, honey, and peanut butter. Someone else.

"Oh my God." That's not her, it's the man's saucer eyes watching sick liquid Margaux seeping past his shoes. He's a stranger, saucer eyes gone wild, gone pale. "Excuse me, I think she's..." Popped. The cashier almost look panicked, and they want to guide her to a less public place. But where? They look like they want to touch her, but they're frightened. Disgusted, maybe.

"Oh my God." She's the echo, she's the phoenix's cry, she leans she bends she gasps. She doesn't want to move, she's frozen. They call an ambulance like she's had a god damn heart attack in the narrow aisle of cashier number four. No. It's just a baby. "I'm fine, I'm fine..." She's wasted, completely muddled in her own mess, down on the linoleum squares until the paramedics take her away.

12:04 p.m.

The nurses were swarming, legs fixed up like some kind of specimen under surveillance, she's oddly calm as they speak of fetal distress, rushing her through bright blue hallways for an emergency cesarean. She wonders if she's willed it to die, and she closes her eyes, overwhelmed by the sense that this baby doesn't want her either.

12:48 p.m.

"Mister Doherty? I'm calling from The New York-Presbyterian Hospital. Margaux was admitted within the last half hour. She went into labor, and in for an emergency Cesarean. We tried calling her father who was first on her emergency contact list, but we were unable to reach him. So, we need you to come down and sign some paperwork for her. Oh, and Mister Doherty, there is a twenty-four hour window before she'll sign the final documents for the adoption. As I understand by the papers she's filled out, you're the father of the child, so if she is unable to sign for those due to further complications, she's given you the responsibility to do so. Thank you. Goodbye."

3:29 p.m.

They call it postpartum hemorrage. The doctors said she would recover, although there was a significant loss of blood. She had been falling in and out of consciousness in the first couple hours of recovery. The baby is wrapped tightly in a blue blanket, one of many September babies in a row, silent and calm. Unnamed. Six pounds and three ounces. Twenty inches. From outside the glass, the nurse points to him, row two, third one from the right.

"That one right there is your son, Mister Doherty. He's healthy and beautiful. The couple who are eager to adopt the child are in the waiting room, if you would like to visit with them."

Mister and Misses Goldbloom. He was in wool, she was in an old mink. Practicing Jews and quietly frugal, no doubt. They were waiting somewhat patiently, somewhat nervously, a basket of forget-me-knots for the mother. Obviously early to mid-forties, kind yet shallow eyes and hearts. It wasn't particularly clear why Margaux had picked them, although by face value, it seemed to be because they were financially stable.

"It's bad luck to adopt a baby that was born today," Misses Goldbloom said miserably into her compact mirror, dusting her nose.

"Don't be absurd, Jestinna."

"But it's the anniversary of a national--"

"Jestinna, please."

"Listen to me. For all we know she could be a drug--"

"I thought you liked her."

"Liked? She was the only decent looking woman with all her teeth who wasn't selling her child for more--"

"Are you having second thoughts about this?"

"We should've found a Jewish girl."

"Good Jewish girls don't give up their children."

"You're right. Only those artist types with loose inhibitions do."

"Be kind. The girl has probably been through a lot."

"What do you think she's going to do with all that money? She's probably a Central Park crackhead, for all we know. Shooting up behind a tree."

"You can't shoot up crack, darling."

It's six in the fucking morning. Day four of the worst day of my life. I'm paying hourly visits to the medicine cabinet, it's so disgusting. The phone is ringing but I let the machine pick up.

Beep.

"Hey darling, it's me, Luther. How's the baby. Ha, and when I say 'baby' I do mean Charl-"

"Charlie," I answer, so drained there's not even a hint of anger in my voice.

"Charlie!" Luther says. The bastard's so embarrassed now. Probably.

"She's not here. She's in the hospital."

"Still?"

"Uh, yeah." Idiot.

"Oh. Well, hey, how are you pal?"

"Fine and dandy. You?" I ask, though I really don't care.

"I'm doing all right, actually. I...do...congratulations Charlie."

"Thanks Logan. But I have to get going. I.. have something in the oven."

"Oh yeah, that's always important. Hey, could you do me a favor? Tell-"

Click.