Kill Marguerite and Other Stories by Megan Milks Read Free Book Online Page B

badly; pain shot all through. I mustered up all my strength and walked the two blocks to the hospital. The nurse in the emergency room took one look at me, gave me a clipboard, and said, take a seat. Although the pain was excruciating, I told myself to be patient. Other people needed doctors, too. But I couldn’t even fill out the application form; my stomach was yawning noisily. What was I to do? So I lifted up my heart and took another bite. The nurse sighed. Well, now you’ll need a transplant. Doctor!
    I recovered fully. Paul and I decided to take a break. I feel sure it is a permanent break but have decided the decision is his. He will not be at peace unless he gets the last word and can legitimately justify the break-up on grounds not related to my heart.
    I no longer eat tomatoes. When I see them now, I feel a phantom lurch in my chest. My new affair is with grapes. Cold, hard grapes. I like the white kind, the seedless kind, the ones that look like eyeballs. I like to plop a cold, hard seedless grape in my mouth and suck and suck before biting and feeling all the juice squirt out inside of me. Sometimes, I like to peel the skin off before chomping on the fleshy interior. But it’s hard to find the time for that. We’re all so busy these days.

FLOATERS
    Written with Leeyanne Moore

    Wednesday. Longass day at work, but Wednesdays meant Sal’s. Always a good crowd, always got the laughs. Sal’s reminded Jason why he loved comedy: the control, the feeling of mastery he got when the audience responded to his every move.
    Tonight, though. He didn’t know. It had been a shit day, literally. This morning when he went to take a piss, he’d found a mess of oatmeal-colored floaters drifting around in the shit-speckled bowl.
    Disgusting.
    In the greenroom-cum-broom closet, Jason sat and crossed his legs so his foot wrapped around his calf. Last week he’d threatened to dump Ju-Rin if she started up again with the laxatives. Now he’d have to follow through.
    He pulled out his phone and debated. No, he decided, shoving it back into his pocket. He’d do it after the set, when he felt powerful.
    Now, he was too anxious. He jiggled his legs, trying to work his nervous energy down to just below stuttering fear.
    Enter Kevin and Mike. Jason shifted so his ankle rested on his knee.
    Kevin drew first, Mike second. Jason got third.
    Jason introduced Kevin, and Kevin stepped up to the mic, did his usual.
    Jason stood backstage in the gap between the green curtain and the back door, listening to Kevin introduce Mike. Mike went on. Jason listened with half an ear.
    The thing was this. The first time they’d talked, weeks ago, she’d lied to his face. Made him think he was imagining everything.
    Then last night he’d found more wrappers in the bathroom trash and a box right in the front of the cabinet—she hadn’t bothered hiding them. He’d started off with “Baby, I just want you to be healthy.” Long silence. He’d followed that with “I can’t be with you, you know, if you’re....” Another long silence.
    The way she looked at him—like he was slightly pathetic. It made the situation surreal.
    Next thing he knew, she’d gotten up off the couch. He could hear her in the bathroom, the crinkling rustling of her throwing out all the packets of laxatives she’d squirreled away. It was that easy, he thought, relieved beyond belief. She came out smiling. He hugged her. She wiggled out of his hug and went to clean the dishes. They watched TV together. It was good.
    Then this morning he goes to use the toilet and finds a giant ‘fuck you’ floater is bobbing in it. Black diarrhea slopped under the rim—he got it on his hands lifting the seat. Jesus.
    He shook his head. Focus. Mike was introducing him.
    Mike walked off stage and punched him in the shoulder. “They’re all yours,” he said.
    Jason, still jittery, took a