Page 102 of Prince Charmless
While taking down a glass from the cabinet, I notice she’s added the Cape Cod fridge magnet to her ever-growing collection. There’s also a sketchbook lying open on the counter. I recognize the pencil-drawn landscape instantly. It’s the view of the ocean from Cassie’s house. It’s in black and white but incredibly hyper-realistic. I flip through some other pages. She’s been drawing plants, mostly. Her muse seems to be this one orchid she’s redrawn about seven times over, each from a different angle. A bed squeaks and I shut the book. This is none of my business.
With a glass of water and some aspirin, I head into Melina’s room to find her face-down in a position like Christ on a cross. I gently pull down her off-kilter skirt to re-conceal her ass.
“Melina.”
She waves me off.
I put the glass of cold water against her forehead. Her eyes open one at a time; left, right.
“Drink this for me.”
I hand her the glass and she downs the whole thing in one go.
“Good?”
She nods and flops back down on her side. “Bedtime story?” she asks to her pillow.
“Once upon a time, there was a fair lady who poisoned herself and a very nice prince who went way too much out of his way to help her.”
“And they all lived happily ever after.”
One can hope.
I place the aspirin on the nightstand for her to take in the morning. Before I leave the room, she whispers, “Taylor.”
I turn around.
“Come’ere.” She beckons me with a floppy hand.
I walk back over. “What?”
“Closer.”
I brush the hair out of her eyes, then turn off her bedside lamp just as she says, “I wish you were an accountant.”
Melina tries to reach my hand, misses, then lets her arm hang off the side of the bed. Translation: she wishes I were easier.
“I’ve done some accounting, actually.”
“Really,” she barely makes out.
“Yep.”
Office life was banally peaceful when I worked at the embassy in D.C.. My days were full of Microsoft Excel, scheduling appointments, and data entry. A coworker gave me a cactus,which I kept on my desk. I remember feeling like they were treating me like a child. (Well, I was in my early twenties, Iwasa child.) This was compounded by the fact that I’m pretty sure they knew the only reason I was there was because my dad told me if I wanted to stay in America, I had to be ‘doing something productive’ and ‘not just smoking pot and having sex all the time’. That job might’ve saved me from becoming a hooligan.
“And you want to know something?” I continue.
She hums.
“It was really fucking boring.”
Melina mumbles a drunken laugh. Maybe I should stay a few minutes until she’s asleep.
33
Melina
After an unproductive thirty-minute shower of anguish, dread, and regret, I put on my grossest sweatshirt because it’s what I deserve. Halloween is a stupid holiday. I thought I could use it as an excuse to go crazy without being recognized. It worked in the worst way possible. I feel like a slug. A slug that died, then came back to life, then died again.
