notebook expansion.

this is a scene that would be in the first story I wrote about the egotistical writer. it would take place years before the part I wrote.

She threw the papers at my face. It should have been a strong gesture of rage, but well, you know what happens when you throw paper. As it drifted slowly to the floor I thought about how it as a visual representation of her emotions. Like a headstrong ship that gets the wind taken right out of its sails. After years of fighting I knew the pattern, and I admit I used her submissiveness to get away with more than I should. I was gazing at the papers, a little in awe of the poetry of the universe, when she hit me in the stomach with the fire poker.
“Fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.”
“You tell me not to be dramatic and then you tell me you have a son,” she yells.
I’m on the ground sobbing. My whole body feels sick. I’m facing the oriental carpet and I wrench and vomit all over it. The next blow land across my back but I don’t really feel it. All I can do is think that the vomit looks like an abstract version of the patterns on the carpet. Thanks to the sherry I had ingested earlier that night the colors are almost an exact match. It’s like someone took part of the carpet and put it in a blender then poured it back onto the carpet. As she hits me on the head I’m thinking, so this is what they mean by your body detaching during trauma. I almost want to laugh, she thinks she’s hurting me. She can’t see that my essence has retreated, slinking out of my mouth as regurgitated pie and sherry. And I am safe now, a pile of chameleon stench hidden from the fire poker. Eventually she stops hitting me.
She slumps into the armchair. I roll over and lie on my back panting. There seems to be something sticky on the side of my head. I feel nothing but pounding pain throughout most of my body. We stay like this for maybe ten minutes, not talking or moving then she gets up and goes to the kitchen. I groan and start to check for broken limbs. There is a cut in my head but the skull isn’t fractured. I’m sitting on the carpet when she comes back with a tray, a bottle of whiskey two glasses and an ice pack.
“I think I should go to the emergency room.” I tell her.
“I think we should talk.” She kneels beside me and holds the icepack to my head.
“You tried to kill me.”
“Here, have a whiskey,” She tenderly pours a little into my open mouth, “you have a son?”
“Yes, he’s six months old.”
“Why did you marry me?”

I had a date with Ben it was bad but not as bad as this writing.

I was looking really good, My lips were just perfect. I opened the door and stepped into the restaurant. He was sitting there and the first thing I noticed was beard, gross. Where did that come from? I mean I almost didn’t want to go sit down, but I figured what the hell, at least it will be a story. I mean I’m already here, At least I can make this guys night for him right? I go over to the table.
“Hi, I’m Sharon.”
He looks up at me and smiles, gross beard smile. “Nice to meet you Sharon, I’m Ben.” He doesn’t get up to pull out my chair for me, it’s probably better, I don’t want him getting too close to me. He’s not saying anything, great, a guy who doesn’t know how to talk and has a beard.
“How are you doing?” I ask. Let’s see the wine list, at least I can get my moneys worth.
“I’m pretty good,” he says, “you?”
“I’m ok, I had a terrible time getting here, I was going to drive but then I remembered I hate parking down town. Right? So I took a cab, and oh my god, let me tell you.” I wave a perfectly manicured hand in front of my face.
“It smelled?”
“And I should have seen it coming, but I forget what their like.” I’m probably going to get the merlot, and the salmon, I heard from Suzie that the salmon here is amazing.
“What?”
“Well, they don’t have the same standards that we do.”
“Who don’t?” He sounds like he’s getting worked up for some reason, it’s probably the beard, it must irritate his face.
“Cabbies,” I think I’ll probably skip desert, he seems kind of boring.
“Yes, filthy folks cabbies, we should have them all shot.” Did I just hear him right? I replay the sentence in my head and lower the wine list to look at him. He’s just looking at me. Is he some sort of crazy person? Is he joking?
“Are you joking?”
“ Oh no,” he says, “ I really want to shoot anybody who drives a cab.” So he’s one of those assholes who thinks he’s funny, great. This is going to be a long night.
“In fact I’m going to go look for some cabbies right now.” He gets up. “It wasn’t that nice to meet you.” and he walks out the door. People with beards are so weird. Gross.