She didn’t belong. Not in her satin dress. Not with her split lip, her bruised arms. Not to that empty night.
The bus sputtered across the streets, groaning under its weight. Strips of light from outside flashed on her face. It was only them two in the bus.
Matthew sat at her right, shaved and smelling of cologne. For once, he was quiet.
“Do you think the Ritz is still open?,” she asked. “It’s been eleven years since we last went there”
The bus hit a pothole. Matthew’s head, heavy and limp, lolled over to her shoulder. His cheek was still warm.
Of course it was.
“Remember the champagne?,” she continued. “The caviar? The confetti? Oh, and the music? Wasn’t the music wonderful?”
Vivaldi’s ‘Primavera’. Oh, how they had waltzed to it…
“And your proposal?,” she continued, her lips curling into a smile as she quoted: “‘I know there are dozens braver and wealthier and smarter than me, dozens that deserve your love more than I, but none will love you like I do’”
Her smile was quick to fade, however.
“It… it must’ve been my fault. No one taught me how to be a good wife, you know, or… or how to love properly. But I tried, I really did, I…,” just how many things she threw away, how many universities she left, how many people she stopped talking to? And yet… “Should I… Do you think that I… that I should’ve tried harder?”
Matthew stared ahead, silent but listening. Of course he was listening. But she needed more. She needed him to speak.
“Just tell me: why did you throw that bottle at me? I only wanted to kiss you and you… Why… why did you look at me like that, like you… like you hated me?”
The bus took a turn to the left. Matthew’s head bounced, then landed back. It was heavy. Too heavy.
“And then, when you came home drunk… You don’t remember, but I do.
“You… you pushed me against the wall and you got out your pocket knife and… You always carried it around, this pocket knife, and so you pressed it to my throat. Right here,” she touched the scar under her jaw; it was still fresh. “You asked me if I was afraid. I begged you to let me go, I told you I was sorry, told you again and again. But you said… you said that you’d bury me alive, five feet underground, bury me so deep that no soul would hear me scream. I asked you why you were doing all this to me and… And you said: ‘Because you love me too much’.”
The scent of decay increased. In the window, she thought she saw – no, it did happen, it must’ve happened – Matthew’s mouth twitch.
That one twitch was enough for her to seize his face.
“You didn’t drink it, did you?,” she whispered, hysterical. “You didn’t drink that awful drink I gave you, you didn’t… You’re alive! Matthew, you’re alive, you’re alive!,” at least one sign. She needed at least one, small sign. And… yes, yes! There, there was a hitch in the nostrils! She saw it! It happened! He had inhaled. Matthew had inhaled, he was breathing, he was, he was! “Matthew, I didn’t want to, I’d never do this, I… I was just…
“Let’s go back, let’s… You’ll drink less and I’ll try more and we’ll go to the Ritz. We’ll drink champagne there and you’ll tell me that you love me more than that dozen of admirers and… and everything will be alright, we won’t… we’ll never fight. We’ll love each other. Right, Matthew? Right?”
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Last stop. The bus stopped and, once the engine died, the lights flashed on, blindingly white.
From the front of the bus, the driver began to pack his things. A faint noise reached his ears then, as if someone was crying. Tossing his bag over his shoulder, the driver glanced back.
A woman in a beautiful, green dress sat at the back. She was shaking someone, some man in a suit – her partner, probably. A thatch of black hair was hiding her face from view.
Ah, them drunkies again, thought the driver, only a tad too strange for regular drunkies. He could’ve sworn the man was a corpse, so stiff the poor lad looked.
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“Say it,” everything in her was aching, tearing, ripping apart. “Say it. Matthew, please, say it”
But Matthew stared at her, glaze-eyed. No, not glaze-eyed, never glaze-eyed! He was just tired. Just tired, yes.
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“Ma’am?,” the driver began to approach them, squeezing his beer belly between the seats. “I’ve gotta close the bus – last stop”
The woman didn’t answer.
“Ma’am?”
The words died in the driver’s mouth as soon as he came closer.
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No, no… She couldn’t… She wouldn’t… Matthew would speak. He loved her. He was alive.
She slid her fingers inside his mouth. The tongue felt dry and swollen. She didn’t care.
Slowly, she pushed his lips open. Closed them. Opened them again.
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The driver staggered backward, knuckles white as they reached to grab for the seats.
“Lord Almighty”
Scream for help. Call the ambulance. The police. The FBI. No, the three of them at once.
The lips of the woman’s partner were peeled. Peeled and ripped and torn and his teeth… His teeth were chagrined.
And out ran the blood, out it gushed from that monstrous cavity, trickling down the man’s chin, flooding the woman’s fingers, staining her beautiful dress. Out it ran, out it ran…
It stank of rat poison.
It was black.
And out it ran.
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Matthew’s mouth. Her fingers pushing it open and close. But there was only one voice that spoke.
“I’ll take you to the Ritz, Julia. I will”
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