Marie Says

By David Duenas

Some girl says to me, “I may not have a monopoly on despair, but I’m a big shareholder.” People pretend to listen. Music plays loudly in another room; it is an excuse at best. The women parade big ass and men only talk over beer and smoke. There is candlelight… and walls saturated with conversation, music. Always there is the music playing loudly in another room. An excuse. To forget. A man, forgetting, and she is left only with the music. But it doesn’t care enough to really listen.

I may not have a monopoly on despair, but I’m a big shareholder.

And to be honest, she has been practicing the line for days now. Keeping it secret and close for the moment she thought it would really matter. And perhaps it is too soon. She allows the words to slip. And hope, for a moment, dances. It crosses the floor hand in hand with the smoke of drunken men and careless women.

I may not have a monopoly on despair, but I’m a big shareholder.

Marie says she cannot love. And just stares off distantly, withdrawn.

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