The Maryanne Experience

Below is my attempt at fiction. Maryanne is a reoccurring character that I soon hope comes to life through this blog. It's just a fun experiment for me to try out something I've never done before. Some people jump out of planes, I attempt fiction writing.

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Upon entering Maryanne's apartment, I noticed a peculiar stench but said nothing of the matter. I hoped that maybe it was the Indian food she had had last night, which she was raving about all night tonight. I was hoping it was something that elegant. Indian food.

But it wasn’t, of course it wasn’t.

After locking the door behind us, she quickly scampered away saying something to me, I still can’t quite make out; it sounded like, “make yourself at home, please excuse the clutter.” But I still can’t quite confirm that, and that’s okay. I tried looking for a comfortable spot to plant myself on her fantastic minimalist couch, dark gray, stained with what looked like coffee (and hopefully not sporadic anal secretions of a dog I had also heard about all night). I found the spot, right on the arm of the couch, next to the mutilated stuffed animal that appeared to be drenched in puppy slobber.

Still stationary, I looked around her apartment, wondering how a girl, at such a high caliber, can live in such a bourgeois apartment and treat it like it would all be demolished tomorrow. Items of clothing were strewn on the floor like land mines, or stepping stones to her bedroom. Folded papers acted as coasters for the congregation of cups on her coffee table. Stacks of books piled up like Jenga towers, with pages ripped out and highlighted that were sprinkled throughout the living room like large pieces of confetti. Her walls were covered with expensive looking photography of Berlin and Croatia (I recognized these, because I had been there, too; something else we had discussed tonight), and while, yes, everything was rightfully framed, the frames were beyond crooked. So crooked that I thought, perhaps it was intentional.

“I’m sorry, Ian, I’ll be just a second, these boots are impossible to take off!” I heard a loud thud, but I didn’t respond. I was too busy being entranced by her chaos. “Rusty, please stop humping your bed. My dog will be coming out soon, I hope you don’t mind, he’s quite friendly.”

“I should be fine. If not, I’ll just throw him over the balcony.”
“Well, that would be unfortunate.”
“Then he should probably behave shouldn’t he?”
“Touche, sir.” And like that our exchange ended, and I could hear Rusty’s dog tags rapidly slapping against each other. Clink. Clink. Clink. Clink. Clink.
“Rusty, I said stop with the humping!”

Parched as I was, I contemplated avoiding any contact with her dishes. In fact, I kind of assumed she wasn’t the “wash the dishes” type. I stayed put, but only for a short moment, until that stench was severely inhibiting me ability to breathe. I followed my nose into the kitchen.

What I found was unmistakably the most disgusting pile of god knows what just hanging out on the floor. Plugging my nose, I got closer to this mass of mish mash in order to assess and examine what this was exactly. In the tan colored pile I noticed a gloppy mass of cotton, stained in red tones. I bit; I wanted to know more…so I grabbed a cocktail straw from the jar that sat atop her counter.

Poke. Poke. Poke.

The mass moved with a little bit of pressure. As it rolled over I noticed a string coming out of this pill shaped cotton. Blood red. Cotton. String. It made sense now. Rusty then debuted himself, prancing into the kitchen with his chest held high, staring at me so as to say, “yah, that’s right, I ate that, and tried to digest it, and didn’t think it was good enough for me so I returned it to its rightful owner. AND WHAT!?” Rusty had vomited kibblethe entire contents of Maryanne’s bathroom trashcan along with his kibble.
I looked at Rusty, disgusted, peeved, disappointed. Rusty proceeded to lick my calves, probably salty from all the dancing I had done that night.

Then I processed…
Rusty’s period tongue licked my calves.

It was that time of the month for Maryanne.

…Maryanne would not be seeing me again.