but industrious native had been incorrect all along. Unable to afford the cost of graduate school and unwilling to sign for another student loan, she decided to wait tables at Belleforest, earning just enough money to make her half of the rent. I rarely went into town anymore, but on occasion I would eat lunch at the bistro, the only time of day I could afford anything on the menu. Sitting alone in a corner booth, enjoying a
quiche poireaux
and glass of tap water, I removed my moleskin notebook and fountain pen from my leather satchel, and then in front of everyone, including my mortified
serveuse,
I began to tinker with my novel, a bloated behemoth of self-indulgent excess, while the other patrons paused from their impassioned debates about the incompetence of government to shake their heads and quietly condemn me for pursuing such foolish dreams.
Now, after adjusting Van Gogh’s bright yellow and summer-swollen sunflowers, Morgan kicked off her shoes and slumped onto the futon. Her clothes smelled of grease fires and her hair was so tangled and oily it may have been combustible—one spark from a lighter and the whole block would have detonated like a bomb, turning the neighborhood into a raging inferno of poverty and madness. In a gruff voice she castigated herself, her coarseness on full display. “What the
fuck
was I thinking? Why the hell did I major in art history? Why did I focus on heists, stolen paintings, Modigliani’s
Woman with a Fan
?”
I shrugged, wondering the same thing myself. Some women were meant for the wide world, but Normandy Falls seemed to suit Morgan Fey just fine. At twenty-two she already looked too washed away to be playing the part of a chain-smoking, alienated, bohemian waitress at a bistro that billed itself as “the finest upscale dining for a hundred miles around.” Not that my field of study offered a clear path to success. In the eyes of the world, a degree in comparative literature was equally worthless, and we both seemed to be in real danger of sliding toward premature middle age and a kind of permanent plainness.
Even though I no longer possessed the patience for drawn-out negotiations, I realized that in a delicate situation like this one I needed to be diplomatic, take my time, pay Morgan a compliment or two, it was a matter of common courtesy, but I’d grown so accustomed to the simple lines of communication offered by a serious relationship—a few key phrases churlishly spoken, a couple of impatient grunts, exasperated sighs—that I no longer knew the appropriate things to say or do. Also, a small part of me actually looked forward to ending the relationship. I’d been on the receiving end of breakups plenty of times and had always wondered how it might feel to see that stunned and puzzled expression on another’s face. But when the big moment arrived, I was unable to look her directly in the eye.
Trying hard not to sound wheedling or appeasing, I asked her to vacate the premises. “The lease is in my name, after all, not yours.” With a mixture of curiosity and dread, I waited for her to thrust a knife, or at the very least a hatpin, deep into my small, dark heart. I expected a stormy exchange of words, and when she didn’t respond I said, “Listen, Morgan, a fresh start might be a good thing for us both. You’re miserable and I’m clearly incapable of making you happy. And I certainly don’t think a child is the answer to your problems.”
Morgan laughed scornfully. If I could tear her down with a few choice words she could certainly do the same to me, and I shrank from the awful spectrum of her excessively sharp and narrow teeth.
“Are you suggesting this breakup is mutual? Because there is no such thing, Edmund.” She gave me a withering look and then, sinking into a serene lethargy, walked slowly toward the window, where she gestured to the river slithering darkly through the forsaken town of her birth. “I’ve often wondered,” she said in a quiet,
quiche poireaux
and glass of tap water, I removed my moleskin notebook and fountain pen from my leather satchel, and then in front of everyone, including my mortified
serveuse,
I began to tinker with my novel, a bloated behemoth of self-indulgent excess, while the other patrons paused from their impassioned debates about the incompetence of government to shake their heads and quietly condemn me for pursuing such foolish dreams.
Now, after adjusting Van Gogh’s bright yellow and summer-swollen sunflowers, Morgan kicked off her shoes and slumped onto the futon. Her clothes smelled of grease fires and her hair was so tangled and oily it may have been combustible—one spark from a lighter and the whole block would have detonated like a bomb, turning the neighborhood into a raging inferno of poverty and madness. In a gruff voice she castigated herself, her coarseness on full display. “What the
fuck
was I thinking? Why the hell did I major in art history? Why did I focus on heists, stolen paintings, Modigliani’s
Woman with a Fan
?”
I shrugged, wondering the same thing myself. Some women were meant for the wide world, but Normandy Falls seemed to suit Morgan Fey just fine. At twenty-two she already looked too washed away to be playing the part of a chain-smoking, alienated, bohemian waitress at a bistro that billed itself as “the finest upscale dining for a hundred miles around.” Not that my field of study offered a clear path to success. In the eyes of the world, a degree in comparative literature was equally worthless, and we both seemed to be in real danger of sliding toward premature middle age and a kind of permanent plainness.
Even though I no longer possessed the patience for drawn-out negotiations, I realized that in a delicate situation like this one I needed to be diplomatic, take my time, pay Morgan a compliment or two, it was a matter of common courtesy, but I’d grown so accustomed to the simple lines of communication offered by a serious relationship—a few key phrases churlishly spoken, a couple of impatient grunts, exasperated sighs—that I no longer knew the appropriate things to say or do. Also, a small part of me actually looked forward to ending the relationship. I’d been on the receiving end of breakups plenty of times and had always wondered how it might feel to see that stunned and puzzled expression on another’s face. But when the big moment arrived, I was unable to look her directly in the eye.
Trying hard not to sound wheedling or appeasing, I asked her to vacate the premises. “The lease is in my name, after all, not yours.” With a mixture of curiosity and dread, I waited for her to thrust a knife, or at the very least a hatpin, deep into my small, dark heart. I expected a stormy exchange of words, and when she didn’t respond I said, “Listen, Morgan, a fresh start might be a good thing for us both. You’re miserable and I’m clearly incapable of making you happy. And I certainly don’t think a child is the answer to your problems.”
Morgan laughed scornfully. If I could tear her down with a few choice words she could certainly do the same to me, and I shrank from the awful spectrum of her excessively sharp and narrow teeth.
“Are you suggesting this breakup is mutual? Because there is no such thing, Edmund.” She gave me a withering look and then, sinking into a serene lethargy, walked slowly toward the window, where she gestured to the river slithering darkly through the forsaken town of her birth. “I’ve often wondered,” she said in a quiet,
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