Marquez is Dead

Is it called the tapenzie?

I don't know. There was a pause. See, there are a lot of things I don't know. Another pause. I don't know anything if you ask me about sports.

What does that have to do with anything? 

I'm just saying. 

There was a conversation about meditation. He was mad she was a know it all. Medications. Meditation. In public too, when they went out. Get the fuck out of my face he thought.

She thought whether it was worth it to hold on to him. 

That's ridiculous, he said. Why do you weigh our relationship on one fight? Obviously things are ok. Get the fuck out of my face was still written on his.

How can I not weigh it when this is what I'm left with. He couldn't escape any faster. He looked like her poor cat when she held him on her lap. Tail wagging. A cat wag. Her firm grip.

He had gotten himself into this mess. Both pig-headed. She wanted out. He smoothly rode her in. Made it so she couldn't let go.

She could. But she didn't want to. The money mostly, the stability. The family. The values. So much baggage too. Baggage that big picture she didn't have the patience to sort through. The part of her that mirrored her mom did. It wanted to spin in circles in the weave that was uncertainty. She wanted sympathy, love, understanding. It wanted to know those things without a partner telling it so. 

Fuck. This time it was her mouth. She was changing. 

There was an accident. And Marquez is dead.