Kill Marguerite and Other Stories by Megan Milks Page B

know.”
    â€œI am—”
    â€œLove you,” Jason-as-Ju-Rin interrupted, his voice now high and squeaky.
    The audience laughed.
    â€œOkay,” Jason said to the audience, becoming himself again. “I think that’s all the context you need.” He turned to Mike. “Let’s do it.”
    Mike-as-Jason nodded and stepped forward.
    â€œWe need to talk. About your bulimia.”
    There was a torturous silence, Jason-as-Ju-Rin using the time to look up and slowly, slowly raise his eyebrow. As he did this, Mike-as-Jason slowly deflated.
    The two sustained the moment, staring at each other until they could hear audience members shifting in their seats.
    â€œRun this errand for me? We’ll talk after you get back.” Jason-as-Ju-Rin held out a list to Mike-as-Jason.
    Mike looked uncertain, reaching for the list, but Jason-as-Ju-Rin pulled the paper back.
    â€œNo, no. Nevermind. You don’t have to.”
    â€œWait—fine—I’ll go,” Mike-as-Jason offered.
    â€œNo,” Jason-as-Ju-Rin quickly responded, and held the scrap of paper further out of reach.
    â€œBut I want to,” Mike-as-Jason responded, trying to grab the paper.
    â€œNevermind!”
    â€œWant to!”
    Mike finally seized the scrap of paper.
    â€œThanks, sweetie,” said Jason-as-Ju-Rin cheerily.
    The two men turned together: “And—scene!”
    They bowed repeatedly. The applause was staggering.
    At home, the apartment reeked and a covered saucepan was on the stove. Jason cautiously lifted the lid and—look who forgot to clean up her vomit. Thanks, sweetie. Fuck. He poured the puke into the trash can and watched the chunks glop over the wreckage: a drippy carton of Neopolitan ice cream, a jar of peanut butter, a carton of orange juice, and then some. He took out the trash: there goes that paycheck. Inside, he washed the saucepan and lid, then sprayed the kitchen with Lysol.
    â€œI gotta ask, man,” Noah blurted. It was three months later, backstage at the Beat. “Don’t you feel guilty?”
    Jason shrugged, yawned. “Noah, when you haven’t had sex in six months, the high sperm count just squeezes the guilt right out of you.”
    Pause. The guys laughed a beat later.
    He checked his watch. “Hey, I gotta, you know, get ready,” he said. They left.
    He stared himself down in the filmy mirror, then turned away from it. Hard to feel guilty with all the shit she put him through. When every time he told her she had to stop, she looked him in the eye and lied: she had stopped. When every time he said the right things—she was beautiful, she didn’t need to lose weight, he loved her the way she was—she looked at him like he was some idiot.
    â€œThe Diary,” he announced, holding the mic with both hands. “She leaves it open on the kitchen table, wide open, obscenely inviting me to invade her private thoughts.”
    He held the mic up and in a dirty, sexy falsetto breathed, “ Read me, you motherfucker — you know you want to !”
    He put the mic on the stand. “But I don’t read it. I’m a nice guy.”
    He smiled. “This drives her crazy,” he said. “I know it does. Because I’ve found the diary open not once,” he held out his fingers, “not twice, not three times—but every fucking day for a month.
    â€œSo last time she came home, I said, ‘Don’t leave this out again or,’” he shook a finger at the audience and sang, “‘you’ll be sorry.’
    â€œAnd she did. She left it out again.” He let them absorb that information, then hauled out the journal from the back of his pants. “Here it is—let’s check out the highlights.”
    Laughter, clapping. He was nailing the timing. But he was also floating on autopilot. Half his mind was on his set; the other half was watching a woman in the audienceas she turned and bent