“Is there someone else?”
"This is not about anyone else. This is about us.”
“That’s not answering the question.”
“This is about us.”
“It’s a yes or no question. Is…there…someone…else?”
“Liar. You’ve been coached, haven’t you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Someone’s been coaching you on what to say.”
“This is about us. Not about anyone else.”
"See? There you go again.”
“Why do you have to make this harder.”
“I’m not making it harder. I have to get a cigarette.”
“I have to go to sleep. Why won’t you let me sleep.”
“You don’t deserve to sleep.”
"I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“You haven’t done anything right, either.”
“Thank you for making Mr. Big a nicer guy.”
That was in June and by then, the statement was meaningless almost to the point of being an embarrassment to the two major players.
By then, it was already over.
By then, disgust, self-loathing and hatred had set in.
By then, the female golf pro was calling, but Mr. Big had yet to say, “I want to be with someone ‘normal.’ I want to have a normal life.”
Because at that point, on the surface, everything seemed status quo. Everything except the weather.
Thieves and Bitches
“Well, I haven’t seen Nico for years,” Carrie said. She could have ended the conversation, but Mr. Big was sitting by the pool on his cellular and instead she expounded on tiny details. Like the fact that Nico was from San Antonio, Tex. “Most San Antonions are third- or fourth-generation Mexican,” she said. “Nico’s a WASP. That she ended up growing up there is a fluke.”
Mr. Big came into the villa. “Get off the phone,” he said. “I want to go into town.” She hadn’t particularly wanted to go into town, but she didn’t particularly want to stay at the villa. She didn’t particularly want to be there at all; or, she wanted to be there, but not with him.
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