Marianne sits in the far left corner of the room, chomping on yesterday’s mistakes. Marianne, who smiles at all the fat jerkoffs in suits-too-small and crooked hair pieces, hopes for a successful one-night stand.
Then Ryan walks in seeking moisture in this dry heat. He settles for the combustible whiskey that Harry likes to serve. Ryan, with his chipped front tooth, 2 o’clock shadow, and lip ring, smiles at Marianne as she floats by in a haze of easy ignorance and generic perfume. She’s singing Penny Lane and thinking of olive shag carpet and forgettable moments with men who enjoy easy women. What’s so easy about looking for love, acceptance, and companionship? Being called a slut, a whore, and a floozy for an honest stab at happiness?
An honest stab through Tony Portman’s ribs made him bleed. He bled easy and ruined Marianne’s favorite dress, a blue number with pit stains and now blood stains, too. She just got fed up with cheap words, hair plugs, and hands too rough. Fed up, so she showed Tony what she was good at.
As Marianne walks by, Ryan’s depthless eyes follow her, a kind of numb interest in the swinging of her bulging hips, encased in electric blue. He downs the whiskey and goes after her.
He’s doomed and doesn’t know it. Another victim done in by a victim. But life goes on. It always does, even when a little death is served on the side.