Jealous Not

"I could sneer, I could glare
Say that life is so unfair
And the one who made it, made it
`Cuz her breasts were really big."
-Jill Sobule


The waitress sets my second martini down in front of me. I like them dirty, not dry. I'm talking about the martini. Not the waitress.

A copy of Sharon's manuscript is to my left. What remains of my T-Bone is pushed to my right. I like 'em rare and bloody. I'm not talking about the steak. I'm talking about the manuscript.

It used to be rare and bloody. It used to be something you could sink your teeth into. That you had to work to digest. That would fill you. And now it's not. I had read it the first rare bloody time through. And now I've read the remains.

Sad little chewed up bone alone on the plate of a carnivore. Now I'm talking about the steak, that the waitress has returned to clear. Sharon is talking to Kevin about the book deal. The waitress quietly picks up my plate, making slight eye contact for permission first. Then she glances at my already half gone martini, and I nod. She can see it, I need another drink. She senses it. I like that flavor. I'm talking about the waitress. Not the martini.

I sink into a place beneath the surface. I push myself down, lower and lower, beneath the water, beneath the earth. I am the place beneath the earth. I am beneath the earth.

Kevin is gushing. Impressed and fortified. Deep down he knows he's a better writer than she is. So if she got a deal, surely he will as well. I like the transference. I'm talking about the idea, not Kevin's in particular.

I wouldn't call it a book deal. I'd say it's more a suicide flight. She let them rape that manuscript. Now it's vanilla and nothing. I sip my martini as I mentally thumb that manuscript. It's perfect. The martini, not the manuscript. But it was once. I had read it. When she was birthing. When she would call me at 3:00 AM struggling with a scene. A sentence. A Word. I had read it piece by piece, moment by moment, when it was strong. When the hero had a past. And a present. And dimensions.

It takes all my concentration not to speak. That effort effects nothing. The conversation does not lull. Not even for the waitress clearing the mess surrounding the manuscript. I mean that literally, not metaphorically. The only thing worth saving on that table was what Sharon discarded.

"Veronica's been oddly quiet all night. Jealous bitch." Kevin waves his drink at me, as if he's trying to get my attention. Minty fresh. I'm talking about his Mojito, not his sarcasm. Sharon looks away.

I'm completely different. I am not one of them. That's not what I want. I write for different reasons. I suck the olives out of the bottom of my martini, and I swallow. Not the olive. I'm talking about the stab. I could defend myself against it. But that would be at Sharon's expense. And she's paid a high enough price for the night.

Not like that. No, not like that.

Some bridges you can't help but burn.