The Merger.
By the time of the merger
John Prescott had fallen in love, or whatever was close to it, with
Margot Frieche'. He had fallen in love though it was only a guess, he
had fallen in love though his family hated her almost as much as they
did him, he had fallen in love in spite of himself. What a horrible
thing. He had never forgiven the French altogether and Margot was so
undeniably French. She ate pastries in tiny bites and sipped wine
with vigor and smoked cigarettes so thin that the vice seemed
pointless. Besides, he was now dependent. He had to watch her and be
infatuated and spend money on the silly things that women liked and
be happy to do so. It seemed to him that love or being in love, was
something close to insanity.
But there he was, stuck in
the mud, stuck with her. It
turned out John Prescott was the only heterosexual man in county or
country that was disappointed with an exotic knockout.
The day
the merger began he was shopping for a night dress which Margot was
set to wear to a dinner party with his family. It didn't really
matter that the Prescott idea of a dinner party was toast or cereal
to soak up the booze or booze to drown the toast or cereal.
She was
eager to turn their image of her. She had never been anything but
loved, adored, admired and wanted so badly for them to be enamored
with her. John could have helped and explained that dress sense meant
nothing in the Prescott good book. But he wanted to be rid of her and
wasn't under his own power, so he had to let bad things happen.
Margot
examined every dress in the store; holding them up to her bosom and
pivoting. Then she examined them again, and again, excluding one or
two with each rotation. He watched this routine and wondered what the
fascination was to him, yet he couldn't deny there was one. All else
that had excited him could be logically explained, yet this couldn't.
'Oooh
dis one' she said with luster.
'Alright'
he deadpanned.
The
thing was a deep purple that did nothing for her or anyone. He
painted the underside of his boat the same colour and was glad he
didn't have to look at it. It was awful but he didn't know what made
women look good; she was the only one that had ever looked good to
him.
'That's
four hundred and eighty-nine dollars' said the wide eyed woman behind
the bench.
Prescott
looked at her like she'd given him a life sentence. He never thought
in dollars and cents, people who did were fools. Rather, currency was
just the yard stick to improve his practicality or provide the tools
to facilitate ones own self-sufficiency. It was a chain that began in
a mans hands and ended when his dependency was at a minimum. There at
the counter a decent rifle was being traded for a cloth sack and he
would rally against it.
'No,
that is ridiculous' he said.
'What
is?' Margot laughed.
'The
price, I won't pay it'
'Oooh....too
late' she laughed again.
Prescott
was standing outside the store holding the bag and the receipt. He
had jumped an important pocket of time and thought this as clear a
sign as any that love was dangerous. She was elated and sang in
French until a thin cigarette occupied her lips.
She
sang all the way to dinner, messes of words rounded off and smeared
together. He maxed out the volume of a Christian country music
station trying to drown it, but on she sang with defiance. She was
overdressed; the purple sack, blood red lipstick, hair pulled into a
modest behive beneath a tiara, long dinner gloves and the smell of
perfume at war with that of stale tobacco. She reminded him of Audrey
Hepburn and how he had never cared for her.
He was
in sharp contrast; a contained mess of flannelette
