There were supposed to be italics in here, but they were left out and I'm too tired to re-add them in at the moment.
Also, I wasn't sure what rating you all would classify this as, to me, it's really PG, but I put PG-13 just in case.
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“Well Stan, I threw out the cigs, and the lighter… and the fluid.
But, my lips are cancerous as my lungs aren’t they? Temptingly volatile no? Too bad your morally vegan diet keeps them off you.
So, you’re gone and I’m… well I’m still here, waiting for that goddamned pulse. That, oh you had such a way of putting it. That… bourgeoisie desire to be reborn from my ashes, but all I feel is like having a smoke. Ain’t life funny like that?”.
Lola sits in her bathtub, garbed in a tight black gown with periwinkle polka dots. She’s wearing her prom make-up too. In her hand sits an empty tape recorder, the dials still spinning.
“We loved each other once, you and I, but hearts don’t fare well in the cold. It died that night, in that black negligee. Maybe these cigarettes could’ve thawed it out, but I wasn’t invited.
I wonder what it would be like to have cancer. To wear those head-covers. To join those support groups and gorge on Oreo’s and black coffee. I think the attention would feel good-- warming y’know?
I think sympathy is like lighter fluid, and, when you get enough people wheezing compliments at you, your insides just ignite. Wouldn’t that be lovely? Like a maudlin Christmas tree?
I still work at O’Hooligan’s by the way. In case you wanted to stop by."
Lola stands and the up-do wavers slightly. She smoothes her dress with a tart smirk, strips, and changes into her work uniform. On the table lies the recorder, dials still spinning, the tape still absent.
“That’s funny too, I think. Remember how I wouldn’t let anyone else prepare my food? I didn’t mean to sound like a “Diva” on that date, but you really should’ve remembered how I feel. Does that make me a diva too, then? Blaming you for not knowing me? Maybe I will join a support group, they’d never know I wasn’t terminal.
Which reminds me, how far along is she? That girlfriend of yours. I hear she’s got a bun in the oven, that must feel… Well, I can’t imagine how that feels. Just think, something disgustingly similar to a naked mole rat is leeching from your beloved. She can’t have been a smoker. Is she a house yet?
Oh this makes me feel better. I can strut my size 4 ass out-n-about while you’re stuck at home with that mammoth of a woman. I bet she eats a lot. Do you have to massage her flab?”
Lola picks up the empty tape recorder and tucks it inside her pocket. She locks the door, hobbles down the doorway and jumps into her car. It’s a ‘95 Ford Taurus, champagne color. The recorder is poking out of shorts, she takes it out and sets it on the dashboard.
“Stan, have you ever tied your life with a song? When we were dating I used to do that; it’d change every week, and that was exciting. Now though, it’s like my life is stuck on a one song cycle. You heard of Fidelity? It’s by that Russian pop girl Regina Spektor.
‘Suppose I never ever saw you, suppose you never ever called, suppose I kept on singing love songs, just to break my own fall.’
I do wonder what would’ve happened if I hadn’t met you. D’ya think I would’ve been happier? Oh, I don’t know, I can’t say. Daddy Time doesn’t beckon to my smoker’s call. I traded both time and teeth for my Menthols. At least I’m skinny.”
Lola stops at a light and digs in the center consul for her sunglasses. They reach from her cheeks to her eyebrows. She rolls down the window and pats her pocket for some cigarettes. They’re not there.
“Dammit, I forgot I had quit. Well that’s a bitch ain’t it? I guess I’ll have to buy some of that Nitroglycerine medication, for the lungs y’know?
My daddy used to tell me that I couldn’t play with boys, that I couldn’t smoke. Used to call me little Lolita, his angel; too good for any of that nonsense. I used to think Daddy would be the only man I’d love.
Daddy was a man; well spoken, and always dressed to the nines. He thought I needed a man like him, a doppelganger daddy. I grew so tired of these “men.” Their starched collars were crushing my wind-pipe. I felt like someone was slowly tugging at the scarf on my neck, like they enjoyed watching the veins pulse dully. I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t breathe.”
She pulls into O’Hooligans, steps out, and examines her make-up in the rear-view mirror. It’s spotless, if a bit over-done, but she knows she’s the hottest waitress in the joint. Unwilling to part with the recorder, Lola sticks it back into her pocket, deciding that it would have to hear her thoughts for the rest of the night.
“Then you came along and found me. I was some domesticated canary locked away in a cherubic cage, and you were like this brilliant light that told me I could sing again. For once in my life someone told me something I could do.
Why? Why did you have to do that? I was living before you came along, maybe just-so, but I was still alive. You should’ve left me in that smoke-stack. At least I wouldn’t know anything different. I wouldn’t known about things like Candy, and Crotch-less panties and cigarettes.
You spoon-fed me sunlight like insulin; made me dependant on your drug, and then tore it from my pleading lips. God damn, your lips were like hot wired tongs branding my face and chest. I guess that’s why I started smoking; it gave me something to crave, reminded me that I’m human.”
The drunks are plentiful tonight and Lola has her hands full. Her ass gets slapped once, twice, three times and she’s dropped a chicken strip basket. Her face is flush with exasperation and the scruncii is sliding off her pony-tail. A man enters, he’s wearing a black suit with ivory pinstripes. All Lola can do is stare.
It’s like you and Daddy had a baby. A fuckin’ baby! No shit, this guy looks just like you, only he knows how to dress. Fuck-me-freddy, maybe this is a sign, some divine intervention to get me over you. See? God doesn’t want me to quit, doesn’t want me to quit smoking or boys.
Oh, honey, he’s gonna be my new cancer.
“Can I get you anything?”
A glass of merlot, he says.
“Anything to eat?”
No, he isn’t hungry, just the wine.
They pass the time, shoot the breeze, yack it up. By the end of the night Lola learns that Sam, the tux-guy, got stood up by a date. She pats his shoulder and acts sympathetic, says that she knows how life is. Tells him that it must be the night, her car won’t start and she’s trying to quit smoking. He offers her a ride home.
Holy, fuckin, christ! I’ve got him taking me home. My new little cig, I’ll stick him somewhere other than my ashtray.
Stan, baby, I haven’t had sex since you left me. This man here, this blend of you and Daddy, he’s going to take me further than you ever could.
Hope you’re having fun with preggers.
Sam pulls into her drive-way, and Lola looks over. She asks if he wants to come inside, have a cup of coffee, or a slice of banana-cream pie. He smiles, brushes hair out of her face and says, quietly, but firmly: “I’m gay.”
Oho, he was my fag, in both meanings of the word.
Fuck, Stan, have you ruined men for me?
Fuck, Daddy, have you ruined men for me?
I need a cigarette.
She thanks Sam, walks inside and runs to the kitchen, sliding to the floor. Her legs are splayed out beneath her and she digs through the trash-can. Picks up the cigs, one, two, three, four, five. Gets out the lighter. Click, click. It’s empty. She gets the fluid out and, with shaky hands, snaps off the lid, spills all over herself.
You’ll be the death of me.
You men.
You men and your cancerous tongues.
She flicks the lighter. Click, click. It flares and Lola falls to the ground, breasts incinerated and her face charred.
Lola tries to scream, but it's soaked in by the cigarette filter. Forever lost between her lips.
Daddy’s Warning:
Men have been found to cause or contribute to: Death, Pregnancy, Disinheritance, AIDS, Hatred, Fear, Sex, Anger, Jealousy.
There, instead of a Camel’s face, is Stan, smiling up with a baby in his arms and script beneath him:
I’m the new cancer.
Lola sucks in a ragged, rattling breath, and thinks:
I really shoulda quit.
