Copyright © 2003 Angela J. Conrad. All rights reserved. 

    He was stuck in a rut, like a cork in a cheap wine bottle. She overdressed, like a challenger in an ice dancing competition, all spangles, and slits. They were a bizarre couple, dull and diamond, plain and pretentious.

    Jake and Patsy Miller accepted every party invitation, out of a desperate boredom and a desire to escape each other. One drink would show on him, two would make him stupid. A drunken Jake became so noir, other guests got coal dust on their arm, just brushing past him. He hated the world, the government, and people in general. His mimicry, was an insulting balance of amusement, and cruelty. Patsy was a woman above herself. Raised in the worst trailer park in town, she now called others Trailer Trash. Patsy chased notoriety like a hound after a squirrel; she scrambled, climbed, whined, and drooled her way to success.

    The Millers lived in a turn-of-the–century house, lovely on the outside, dark, and desperate for repairs on the inside; reflecting the owner’s outside show and inside hollowness. Perhaps it was the lead paint, or the asbestos shingles that turned their souls to madness, or Jake’s dark humor settling to the bottom, like old coffee grounds, black and strong.

    The trouble started at a party. Patsy liked to flirt, though never before had her husband protested or her target reciprocated. However, on this particular night, a willing gentleman attended and Patsy fell into the mutual proposition with a mixture of bliss and stupefaction. Patsy’s short skirt, tight top, and outgoing energy bedazzled the stranger. The newly joined couple began to draw attention to themselves with overloud laughs, spilt drinks, and close dancing. Patsy, resembling an overly decorated Christmas tree, and the stranger, dark as an unclaimed forest, entertained the room with deep dips, and high-pitched squeals.

    Jake brooded, complained, drank, and observed, like a tiger in deep grass scrutinizing a deer. Patsy, like the deer, seemed to sense the attention. It drove her to dizzying heights, past reason, and into danger. An hour later, both Patsy and the stranger disappeared, first to the balcony, then to the car, and finally down the drive and onto the highway.

    Jake had never gone home alone before, and if truth be told, his quiet, peaceful journey was a pleasant contrast to the usual arguing, slapping, and screaming of previous trips. Instead of feeling anger or pain, Jake was having his first drunken epiphany. He saw his life without Patsy, restful, tranquil, and he began to make plans.

    The idea came to him, like a six-inch screw, drilled through an oak board, "I could be happy, if Patsy was gone," Jake whispered. He was now drinking whiskey, Patsy’s Old Charter, and his dull head was buzzing, like a muddy wasp’s nest.

    Jake wasn’t much of a thinker. Solutions never followed his complaining, and tonight, he stumbled.

    Meanwhile, Patsy was having the time of her life. She absorbed the stranger’s attentions like a dried out sponge. The sparkle returned to her eyes, her walk regained its swagger, and her voice took on the huskiness of a jazz singer. As the stranger drove her home, Patsy searched for a way to tell Jake that she was leaving him. This stranger was smooth as hot fudge syrup and she wanted seconds.

    Patsy attempted to enter the front door in a quiet manner, but she tripped on the stoop and practically fell into the entry, losing a shoe. Jake sat at the desk, stacking bankbooks, certificates, deeds, and titles in a prestigious row. Patsy crept towards him, her hose slipping and snagging on the worn hardwood floor. She peered over his shoulder and recognized the prized cards Jake was playing with, all in his name. She suddenly remembered that Jake was the breadwinner, and that he owned everything.

    Jake knew she was there; an elephant had more stealth than Patsy. He turned to look at her and his hand balled into a fist. Her makeup smudged, a strap broken, and her lopsided posture, minus one shoe, infuriated him.

    Jake stood and Patsy braced.

    "You’re not taking everything," Patsy screamed.

    "You little tramp."

    "I’ll get half," Patsy warned.

    "You’ve pushed me too far this time," Jake said, grabbing her hair.

    She grabbed right back, hitting him over the head with the desk lamp. They twisted and turned, in a dance contrary to the tango Patsy and the stranger had danced earlier. He slapped her and she scratched him. Their eyes met and their minds came to the same thought, instantly, "The gun in the top drawer." They pulled and pushed towards the handle, both motivated by rage so great, they thought their heads might explode.

    "Get away."

    "Let go you jerk."

    "Idiot."

    "Streetwalker."

    The drawer came open and the real wrestling match began. The gun was a .38 revolver, loaded and ready for an intruder. Between them, the cold steel pressed first one chest, than another.

    Two shots rang out in the near-empty room. Painful shock registered on both faces as their bodies dropped to the floor. Blood ran in hot puddles and sticky fingers searched clothing for wounds. Jake tried to rise, but fell back hard. Patsy, breathing rapidly, twisted and turned. The pair rolled and looked into each other’s eyes.

    "You shot me, you ass," Patsy said.

    "You’ve killed me," Jake choked.

    In all their drunken absurdity, they both shrieked like monkeys.

    "Jerk."

    "Loser."

    The gun unreachable, words became weak bullets and they continued to shoot nasty remarks until the blood of both soaked the floorboards.

    "Hate you," Patsy sighed; her eyes wide open, the life all drained out.

    Jake tried to punch her, but his left arm was numb and his chest was burning like a forgotten hamburger on a hot grill. He too breathed his last, posing with his right hand still wrapped around Patsy’s throat.

    The police and an inventive journalist photographed the bodies, frozen in their last dance of death. The color photo graced the front of the local newspaper; Patsy would have been thrilled with the notoriety.

    The handsome stranger left town after dropping Patsy off at her door. His mood lightened, his pockets full, blessed with a slight of hand and a black heart; he smiled wide like a Jack-o-lantern and headed for the highway. It seems Patsy forfeited everything for her last dance, her husband’s regard, her three-carat diamond ring, her wallet, and then, her life. Infatuation can be a frightfully short journey, filled with deep crevasses, dangerous risks, and shallow targets, dark as an unclaimed forest.