After Maria left, a palpable silence filled the room. Some people were still eating, though Margery
and Dwight were already in the kitchen, cleaning up. Carol came in with a couple of dirty
plates. “All I can say”, she said, “Is
that woman has been making my life hell ever since she came to this country.”
“Well, she comes
from a different culture”, Margery said.
“She’s
well-educated. She’s lived in Europe. I
would expect her to be a little bit open-minded.”
“She’s old
guard. A supporter of Samoza. Don’t expect too much of her.”
“I guess it’s hard
not to.”
“Have you discussed
this openly with her?”
“I think I’m afraid
to.”
“Because of
Richard?”
“Yes.” She was starting to cry. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay. It can’t be easy for you.”
“Thanks. You’re very
understanding.”
“You’re a good
friend, Carol. The best.”
“Thanks.”
The two women
embraced, while Dwight washed the dishes.
She didn’t know why
she had left early. Perhaps it was Maria’s influence, or simply her own need
for solitude. All these people together
had drained her of her energy. Now
Margery needed time to recompose, for silence.
She felt tired, but unsettled.
Derek had offered her a ride, as had Dwight. She didn’t want to talk to anyone, especially
men. Almost she took a cab, but she wanted to ask for a female driver. She rode the bus. It didn’t take as long as she’d feared, and
the fresh cold air of the November night hit her like a tonic. She felt grumpy and edgy. A little too sensitive. She hated this PMS. She hated being. She felt like crying, she wanted to strangle
someone. She wanted eight inches of manhood inside her, or the sublime services
of a vixen’s tongue. She had been barely
civil towards the bus-driver, a man.
Margery wanted to tear, to rend, kill and devour, she wanted to eat the
raw living human flesh. She was lonely,
unbearably lonely, yet she craved now more than ever her solitude. The dove now ate raw meat. Her reflection in the bus window revealed a
calm and composed young woman. The
cramps were starting. A long warm bath was what she needed. It was particularly Stephen she wanted. She didn’t care that he was gay. She would
surely have him. In drag. Giving head to a young gay man wearing a
white wedding dress with a Princess Diana thirty-foot train. She could not recall when last she had felt
so brutally carnal.
She left the bus,
went past a hooker, then a drug dealer, then along the quieter streets of the
West End, where citizen vigilantes had recently chased out all the
hookers. It had stopped raining, and a
strong steady west wind had blown away the clouds. As Margery paused to reach for her building
keys she heard someone yelling nearby.
She turned, looked up and beheld the constellation Orion. The Hunter.
She went into the apartment for a warm sweater and brought out a kitchen
chair. Margery sat on the front lawn
where she beheld Orion, and communed silently with her ancient nemesis.
She wasn’t
expecting Dwight to return this soon, but saw not Dwight but man, her
enemy. The enemy of all women. “Hello Margery.”
She ignored
him. He paused, looked at her, then
Dwight, but not-Dwight, the Man, the enemy, approached not-Margery, but the
Woman. She didn’t want him. He was a predator, a werewolf, he would
surely try to kill her and drink her blood.
He came nearer. She sprang out of
the chair and ran away. He gave chase.
“Margery! It’s
Dwight. Come here, come back here!” She outran him, turned the corner, then
paused, hyperventilating, by a dumpster on which she leaned for support. She knew she was being stupid, that she must
face him, apologize, plea for his understanding. The man, the enemy of all women, of all life
had again won, had vanquished. She
submitted under the steady gaze of Orion as he trained his spear on her.
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