Authors: Frances Vidakovic
For
starters? Gosh that sounded awfully similar to the words used by Mystic Maria
today. To be honest Serena had been hoping to avoid all conversation about that
dud hundred-dollar experience because there was not one good thing to tell.
“What can
I say? She thinks you and I are going to break up,” Serena said with a roll of her
eyes, as she reached down for some serviettes and folded two into perfect
triangles. Markie, who was in the middle of taking out the fine china, simply
looked at her and dropped the plates onto the slate kitchen tiles.
“Damn it,”
he swore under his breath.
“Don’t
worry about it,” Serena insisted, “we have more plates you know.”
“I’m not
pissed about the plates. I just, I mean I think I just misheard what you said. The
fortune teller…she said something about us breaking up?”
“Yes but
she also said other highly intelligent things like how Tabitha’s going to find
a rich man and live in Hollywood.” She rolled her eyes again to show how
serious she thought Mystic Maria was.
“Oh.” The
peep came out in the expected tone:
so it can’t possibly be true
. If
anything Markie was quite verbal about the fact that Tabitha would find it hard
to find a poor man let alone a wealthy one to put up with her crap.
“I don’t
believe her, you know,” Serena added, “in case you’re worried I’ve gone all
superstitious and believe in jinxes. You and I both know we are never, ever
going to break up.”
Markie’s
head was buried under the kitchen sink cupboard, searching no doubt for the
dustpan so he didn’t reply immediately to her reassurances. In fact, he didn’t
say another word until a few minutes later when he was almost done cleaning the
mess.
“Never say
never,” Markie laughed uneasily, sweeping the last jagged bits of plate into
the dustpan. His motions were so forced and hasty it sent tiny fragments of china
flying into the Serena’s leg.
“Ouch,”
Serena flinched, automatically reaching for the wound. She looked down and
realized that maybe the pieces weren’t so tiny after all, considering her ankle
was now squirting out blood.
“Damn it,
I’m sorry,” Markie said, reaching for the washcloth. “Stay still and hold this
against you until I come back with a bandage.”
“I don’t
need a bandage – a band-aid will do fine.”
“No it
won’t,” Markie insisted, “you’re wounded, you don’t know what you need.”
He ran out
of the room and returned thirty seconds later with the first aid kit. From the
way he was reacting, Serena was surprised he hadn’t called for an ambulance.
“Markie,
what’s wrong with you? It’s just a cut for God’s sake; it’s not my first and it
certainly won’t be the last.”
“Yeah I
know, I know. I’m sorry; I’m just stressed. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
“What
wasn’t supposed to be like this?”
“Tonight,
later, now.” Markie looked at Serena with his puppy dog eyes. “You know what I
mean.”
“No I
don’t actually.”
“Serena…”
he grabbed her hand to alert her that this was a Serious Event. A moment she
would surely remember for forever more.
“Honey I
think we need to talk.”
I think we need to
talk.
Those words will surely go down in history as sending more shivers down spines
than “I’m pregnant” and “Will you marry me?” For a tiny moment Serena thought
the talk might lead to the latter – a marriage proposal. But Markie’s furrowed
eyebrows quickly wiped that thought from her mind. Nup, the prognosis wasn’t
going to be good; it didn’t take a genius to work that out.
“Sit
down,” he said, motioning to the living room couch.
“But I
want to stand.”
“Yeah well
you might regret standing in the end, so trust me and take a seat.”
Trust me.
If anything Markie could be trusted so Serena succumbed to his request. Lord
only knew what was going on here. The last time they had sat down to a deep and
meaningful was over a year ago. Something about how yellow and pink furnishings
were not exactly a very masculine look if her memory served her correct.
“What in
the world are you up to?” Serena asked, keeping her voice as light-hearted as
possible just in case Markie had a good thing up his sleeve. You never really
knew with boys…sometimes they acted all nervous and stuttery but then the next
moment it was like they had popped some confidence pill, just like those nerdy
men who won the lotto and suddenly end up with a blonde trophy wife on their
arm.
Not that
that was a very good example. It was about as likely that Markie had won the
lottery as it was that Serena had transformed into a gold digger. She didn’t
need anybody else’s money; she was a proudly independent woman. Plus Markie
wasn’t into gambling or betting on the false hope scene. Instead he lived by
the mantra:
take action and exert yourself and you will get results
.
This advice had helped build his little creative advertising agency to a
respectable level, and their relationship too. Um, not that it was evident
right now.
“It’s us,
Serena,” Markie sighed, “this isn’t working for me.”
“What
exactly isn’t working?” Serena asked. She was seriously confused now. Up until
the plate cut and blood-spillage episode it seemed to her that everything was
fine and dandy.
“Our
relationship; I’m not happy with it anymore.”
“Excuse
me?” Serena was seriously tempted to bang Markie over the head with the nearby
broom and knock some sense into him. “But last night you…”
“Look can
you just forget about last night, I’m talking about right here and now.”
“Oh so
everything last night was just one big show, was it?” Serena replied snidely.
She couldn’t help it. Sunday night was their special time and the night before
Markie had gone to extra efforts to
please
her.
“No, it
wasn’t a show. Actually yes it was.” Markie stopped and then started again,
this time making sure to tread more carefully. “I think that sex is actually our
whole problem.”
“Sex is
our whole problem?” Serena screamed.
Now she
had truly heard everything. Her boyfriend, with whom she indulged in regular
energetic interactions at least three times a week, was complaining about their
sex life. That was the funniest joke she had ever heard!
“What? Are
you upset about the fact I don’t let other women join us in bed? That I don’t
urinate all over your body?”
Those had
been the wonder tricks of the celluloid porn teen queens they viewed on video last
weekend.
“No.”
Markie’s lip began to twitch so Serena couldn’t be sure whether he was telling
the truth or not.” It wouldn’t make any difference to me if you did that crap.”
“That’s
just fantastic. I don’t have a hope in hell then.”
Serena
crossed her arms as tightly as possible. Frankly she was way too angry to be
upset now. Hell, who’d have thought men could be such wonderful actors in bed.
His yearning for her, his moans, they had all seemed real enough. Who would
have ever guessed they were all FAKE, FAKE and FAKE.
“Look
Serena it has nothing to do with your love-making ability. You’re great,
incredible, and very sexy. Not to mention experienced. But maybe a little too
experienced if you know what I mean.”
“Sorry, I actually
don’t
get what you mean.”
Markie
couldn’t possibly be referring to her past and the numbers thing. This issue-
her twelve ex-lovers versus his two - had caused them a lot of grief in their
early days. But they were over it. Markie had said he didn’t care.
“I lied,”
he said, when Serena reminded Markie of the fact. “I do care; in fact I care
more than anything else in this world about you opening your legs to complete
strangers.”
Serena
reeled back into the couch, as if she’d scored the biggest punch. The pain, the
pure shock of his words danced around on her face like a harlot would in the
red light district. Like the harlot she apparently was.
“Hang on,”
she whispered, once she got her breath back. “We’re been together for almost
five
years. The notches on our belt were dealt with in the first year. We put that
to rest. Why bring it up now?”
“Because I
don’t have any bloody notches!” Markie shrieked. “All my friends are out there
shooting pellets into their fourth or fifth belt while mine frigging still
looks like something belonging to a sixteen year old. Actually I take that
back. Most sixteen year olds have slept with more women than I have.”
“Markie,
you’re nearly thirty. Since when did you give a crap about quantity over
quality?”
“I guess
that would have to be ever since I woke up and realized I’m supposed to be a
man.”
It seems that some
things are really never put to rest. You might think they are while really they
are hovering beneath the surface like a furtive malign virus waiting to attack.
This particular
attack hit Serena where it hurt the most – her pride and to a lesser degree her
heart. She wondered whether if she’d answered Markie’s question differently all
those years ago whether they would be sitting here right now breaking up. You
know the question…
“So how
many men have you been with?”
The
discussion of sexual history inevitably came up early in most relationships. Actually
it usually coincided with the time a couple started doing it. Serena should
know; as soon as the bedclothes were tossed back her partner would be pinning
her down, dying to know:
“Where in
the world did you learn that stuff?”
Except in
Markie’s case it had been different. She had made him wait long for his
dessert, this piece de’ resistance, and as such he hadn’t felt the need to know
the gory details right away. By the time he did find out it was too late.
Markie was hooked.
“You’ve
slept with twelve men,” he had repeated back then, eyes wide like saucers.
Serena
remembered it just like it was yesterday. It was a Monday morning, about eight
o’clock, the day he first feigned a croaky voice and called in sick. Markie
could get away with things like that, given he was managing director and a
creative genius whereas Serena…well she didn’t exactly have the same power in
her hands.
“Phone in
sick? I couldn’t,” she had stammered.
You see, one
does not take a sick day when they have by pure fluke scored an assistant
makeup artist job on a big budget movie set. Serena was supposed to already be
there, kissing butts like a slobbering fan.
“You can’t
or you won’t?”
“Aren’t
they the same thing?” she had skirted around the question, embarrassingly.
There she was, Miss Adventure, Miss Take-One-Big-Risk-A-Day, being put on the
spot.
I must be getting old
, she had thought to herself, five years ago.
Only twenty-three and already putting work before play… Or was it love?
Too early
yet to say.
“At least
tell them you’ll be coming in late; that Fluffy ate some venom-filled mouse and
needs an emergency trip to the vet. That way I can I drive you in to the set a
little later…Will you do that for me?” Markie had asked, his lips making their
way straight past her stomach.
“No but I
can do it for me.”
That had
been Serena’s half-hearted attempt at keeping control, while her legs quivered
like twigs in the wind. Then, after they both climaxed, Markie had asked for
the aforementioned sexual summary. And twelve obviously sounded like a whole
football team to him.
“Why, how
many have you been with?” Serena had asked.
To be
honest, she had thought her record was quite angelic given the circumstances… laissez
faire parents, promiscuous friends (otherwise known as Tabitha, who had
surpassed her own figure years ago). Serena had figured that Markie must be
acting strange and pissed off because he had about the same number of lovers
and not more. Damn that stupid double standard thing, where the guy needed to reach
your quota then multiply it by two to feel like a man.
“I don’t
want to say,” Markie had replied rather mysteriously.
Which was
when Serena figured hang on, maybe she was wrong. What if, God forbid, he had
had fewer partners than she? Nine, ten or heavens she was really in trouble if
it was only six! She’d never encountered that situation before.
“Listen, I’ve
told you before how I’ve been in a couple of serious relationships…” Markie had
started and then drifted off.
Serena had
nodded. Of course, how could she forget? They had bumped into one of them, Miss
Wanda Long Legs on their second date. Miss Wanda and Markie had spent four
years together, from the ages sixteen to twenty and had a mutual break-up as
they both felt the need to spread their wings.