too much, too little (The Good Life aka Good Neighbors)
too much, too little
The Good Life aka Good Neighbors, Margo, PG.
summary: The saddest part of a broken heart / isn't the ending so much as the start.
story notes: Written for yuletide 2005
That morning, for no reason, Margo takes off her wedding ring.
Her hand feels light, unburdened. She can't stop gazing down at it, flexing her fingers, twisting her wrist.
She makes scones without worrying about flour getting trapped underneath the metal. She does the washing up without her rubber gloves.
At eleven o clock the phone rings, and she drops a plate like she's been caught.
*
Town is busy. She needs candles and silver polish, and maybe Jerry's suit is ready to be picked up from the cleaners.
She's never had an affair.
"Not even a quick tumble?" asked Mrs. Peters from the Music Society, and the other ladies laughed into their teacups. Mrs. Peters wore dresses with the security tags tucked into the sleeves, and was easy to ignore.
Margo suspects she would dislike tumbling, she thinks it sounds sweaty and likely to wrinkle. She has her own pursuits. Music, pottery, an upstairs bathroom in major need of redecorating. Books of wallpaper samples and tile patterns fill her kitchen drawers, and it's easy not to notice when Jerry goes upstairs without saying goodnight.
It starts to rain. Margo is without an umbrella, and has already written to the weather department at the BBC twice in the past six months.
The candles prove troublesome to locate, forcing her into the supermarket across from the car park. The colours are garish, the aisles nauseating. She almost slips on the cheap flooring, slick with rain and mud. Another letter. The man who directs her to the candles calls her 'luv'. It's too much. She jams her naked fist into her pocket and hurries home.
*
Six o clock, a glass of gin and tonic, and Barbara comes over to borrow make up.
Margo sits on the bed and watches her play dress up, wedding ring locked back on to her finger and glinting in the light. It's best not to be ambiguous.
She finishes her drink before she gets up. Pulls a tissue from the silver box beside her bed and walks over to the mirror. "Barbara, that lipstick is far too dark for your dress."
Barbara takes the tissue and wipes her mouth. She giggles. "It's been a while since I've done this."
Margo crosses her arms, embarrassed. "You poor thing, you should have told me you'd run out of make up. I have three of everything, pieces I don't even use any more."
"Oh, Margo."
Their eyes meet in the mirror, and Margo has yet to figure out how Barbara manages to make feel foolish. Spoiled. She starts to feel angry, but Barbara grins just in time.
"You're too kind to us, Margo. Besides, Tom says he loves me without it, and the pigs don't seem to mind either way." She pauses and frowns. "The rooster can be quite mean sometimes, but I try not to listen." She turns her face.
"Better?"
"Much."
Margo takes another tissue and uses it to blot the corner of Barbara's mouth. Her throat tightens a little and she clears it.
"What time does Tom get back?"
"About an hour."
Margo nods. "I put the birthday candles by the front door. Matches, too."
"Thanks, pal."
Barbara hugs her quickly, tightly, and it catches her off guard. Margo smoothes down her skirt and blushes. "We'll be over at eight o clock sharp."
Barbara smiles and runs out of the door. Takes the stairs two at a time. "Jerry! Look at me all dolled up!"
Margo picks up her empty glass as laugher floats back up the stairs. Her stomach twists a little and she wonders why.
*
"You want to sleep with Barbara."
She'd said it once, just after they'd moved to Surbiton. They'd been fighting about a baby, an old fight that got sharper and left more scars every time they had it. That was back in the days when they really talked and really fought. Margo used to bang words together just to hear them smash.
She didn't bother after that.
Jerry had barely looked at her. "Don't be ridiculous," he said. Took the keys and went for a drive.
It was ridiculous. Jerry was loyal and traditional. Barbara was so completely Tom's that it hurt to see. But it was true anyway.
He was gone for three hours but brought back flowers. Kissed her on the cheek and she didn't ask again. He was a terrible liar.
Now Barbara is just another fight they never have. The rhythms of their life together have no substance. Margo's voice trills around the rooms of their house, a bird flapping noisily with no direction. Jerry reads his Financial Times silently in the kitchen, turning pages like a metronome.
*
Tom is just Tom, especially on his birthday. Full of homemade wine he leers at her across the room. Jerry has his hand on Barbara's knee, and she excuses herself to the kitchen for a drink of water. She runs her left hand under the tap, and twists her ring around and around.
The thing most people don't understand about Margo is she's not a prude, not in the bedroom. It's just a case of a place for everything and everything in its place.
Tom knocks before he comes in, and she turns towards him, resting her elbows against the sink behind her.
"I'm so sorry about Jerry, Tom. He's had too much to drink. I'll take him home immediately." Her voice sounds shrill and strange. She's not sure why she's nervous.
Tom can't seem to keep his smile on straight.
"It's no problem," he slurs, stepping towards her. Everything takes a lot of concentration. "Gives us a chance to catch up. Ey, Margo? Ey?"
He stands too close, and Margo has to lean back to stop their faces touching. She never understands this almost spiteful interest in her. Margo is tall and hard where Barbara is soft and small. Margo is cold and rigid, her consonants too sharp and her mouth too thin.
It's the second time he's almost kissed her.
The Good Life aka Good Neighbors, Margo, PG.
summary: The saddest part of a broken heart / isn't the ending so much as the start.
story notes: Written for yuletide 2005
That morning, for no reason, Margo takes off her wedding ring.
Her hand feels light, unburdened. She can't stop gazing down at it, flexing her fingers, twisting her wrist.
She makes scones without worrying about flour getting trapped underneath the metal. She does the washing up without her rubber gloves.
At eleven o clock the phone rings, and she drops a plate like she's been caught.
*
Town is busy. She needs candles and silver polish, and maybe Jerry's suit is ready to be picked up from the cleaners.
She's never had an affair.
"Not even a quick tumble?" asked Mrs. Peters from the Music Society, and the other ladies laughed into their teacups. Mrs. Peters wore dresses with the security tags tucked into the sleeves, and was easy to ignore.
Margo suspects she would dislike tumbling, she thinks it sounds sweaty and likely to wrinkle. She has her own pursuits. Music, pottery, an upstairs bathroom in major need of redecorating. Books of wallpaper samples and tile patterns fill her kitchen drawers, and it's easy not to notice when Jerry goes upstairs without saying goodnight.
It starts to rain. Margo is without an umbrella, and has already written to the weather department at the BBC twice in the past six months.
The candles prove troublesome to locate, forcing her into the supermarket across from the car park. The colours are garish, the aisles nauseating. She almost slips on the cheap flooring, slick with rain and mud. Another letter. The man who directs her to the candles calls her 'luv'. It's too much. She jams her naked fist into her pocket and hurries home.
*
Six o clock, a glass of gin and tonic, and Barbara comes over to borrow make up.
Margo sits on the bed and watches her play dress up, wedding ring locked back on to her finger and glinting in the light. It's best not to be ambiguous.
She finishes her drink before she gets up. Pulls a tissue from the silver box beside her bed and walks over to the mirror. "Barbara, that lipstick is far too dark for your dress."
Barbara takes the tissue and wipes her mouth. She giggles. "It's been a while since I've done this."
Margo crosses her arms, embarrassed. "You poor thing, you should have told me you'd run out of make up. I have three of everything, pieces I don't even use any more."
"Oh, Margo."
Their eyes meet in the mirror, and Margo has yet to figure out how Barbara manages to make feel foolish. Spoiled. She starts to feel angry, but Barbara grins just in time.
"You're too kind to us, Margo. Besides, Tom says he loves me without it, and the pigs don't seem to mind either way." She pauses and frowns. "The rooster can be quite mean sometimes, but I try not to listen." She turns her face.
"Better?"
"Much."
Margo takes another tissue and uses it to blot the corner of Barbara's mouth. Her throat tightens a little and she clears it.
"What time does Tom get back?"
"About an hour."
Margo nods. "I put the birthday candles by the front door. Matches, too."
"Thanks, pal."
Barbara hugs her quickly, tightly, and it catches her off guard. Margo smoothes down her skirt and blushes. "We'll be over at eight o clock sharp."
Barbara smiles and runs out of the door. Takes the stairs two at a time. "Jerry! Look at me all dolled up!"
Margo picks up her empty glass as laugher floats back up the stairs. Her stomach twists a little and she wonders why.
*
"You want to sleep with Barbara."
She'd said it once, just after they'd moved to Surbiton. They'd been fighting about a baby, an old fight that got sharper and left more scars every time they had it. That was back in the days when they really talked and really fought. Margo used to bang words together just to hear them smash.
She didn't bother after that.
Jerry had barely looked at her. "Don't be ridiculous," he said. Took the keys and went for a drive.
It was ridiculous. Jerry was loyal and traditional. Barbara was so completely Tom's that it hurt to see. But it was true anyway.
He was gone for three hours but brought back flowers. Kissed her on the cheek and she didn't ask again. He was a terrible liar.
Now Barbara is just another fight they never have. The rhythms of their life together have no substance. Margo's voice trills around the rooms of their house, a bird flapping noisily with no direction. Jerry reads his Financial Times silently in the kitchen, turning pages like a metronome.
*
Tom is just Tom, especially on his birthday. Full of homemade wine he leers at her across the room. Jerry has his hand on Barbara's knee, and she excuses herself to the kitchen for a drink of water. She runs her left hand under the tap, and twists her ring around and around.
The thing most people don't understand about Margo is she's not a prude, not in the bedroom. It's just a case of a place for everything and everything in its place.
Tom knocks before he comes in, and she turns towards him, resting her elbows against the sink behind her.
"I'm so sorry about Jerry, Tom. He's had too much to drink. I'll take him home immediately." Her voice sounds shrill and strange. She's not sure why she's nervous.
Tom can't seem to keep his smile on straight.
"It's no problem," he slurs, stepping towards her. Everything takes a lot of concentration. "Gives us a chance to catch up. Ey, Margo? Ey?"
He stands too close, and Margo has to lean back to stop their faces touching. She never understands this almost spiteful interest in her. Margo is tall and hard where Barbara is soft and small. Margo is cold and rigid, her consonants too sharp and her mouth too thin.
It's the second time he's almost kissed her.