07.12.06 Avarice

She sits eating her dinner silently.

The tension is rife. I myself feel fine. But she...

...is another matter.

My silverware clanks down onto my plate, as I take my napkin and wipe my lips.

I took back to the kitchen this afternoon, a day after my defeat, and decided that a really wonderful pasta dinner - penne, with sundried tomatoes, olive oil, mushrooms, in a red wine bolognese sauce, with other appropriate ingredients - might smooth over the waves of tumult.

Apparently not.

Even a bottle of one of her favourites - Domane de Trevallon 2001 - did nothing to calm the seething beast which I knew lurked.

Much to my surprise I've not seen it.

Yet.

Marissah sips her red wine, and focuses utterly on her food. I may take that as a compliment I suppose.

The jazz in the background was a new ploy for this dinner. She adores it, so once again, doing what I can.

I anticipate it with every passing second.

I drain the last of my glass.

The bottle is down over near her.

"Can you pass the wine please."

I stare at her. She ignores my request.

"Very well then," I mumble semi-silently to myself.

I stand and walk over a few steps, return, and pour myself a glass. I make sure to fill it near to the top.

I shall need it.

These next few minutes will be in silence. I have only myself to converse inwardly to, although My Master too can hear me at all times. Good thing too. I need him more than ever.

I complete my pasta, much to my satisfaction, and push the empty plate to one side, and pull my chair back to cross my legs.

Marissah is normally a fairly steady eater, but she's hardly touched her plate.

"Lost your appetite my sweet?"

She blinks a few times, and moves her eyes to mine.

I smile gently.

Her lips are murderous.

"You're just asking for it."

"For what," I dare her.

Am I trying to provoke her?

Oh yes.

Oh hell yes.

"Robert, don't push me, please."

Then I shall push her.

"Why. You can't do any worse to me than Edwards did."

I smile again. I am taking all of this in stride. I welcome my defeat warmly.

Evolution continues.

"I can't believe you."

Here it comes.

"You lost. You fucking lost."

Yes. I did. I lost. Badly. Well, not badly. But enough to ensure my...loss.

Quite.

I shrug my shoulders.

She stands up and walks over towards me, looking down at me. Her hands are on her hips.

"And this is how you react. You shrug? You're the goddamn champion you stupid son of a bitch. And you lose to that asshole in your first match as champion!"

Of course the truth stings.

"What's done is done," I declare honestly and mildly.

Marissah storms away into the living room. I decide to get up and follow her. I do so casually, one hand in my pocket, the other grasping my wine glass.

I see her fiddling with the stereo, saying what I believe to have heard along the lines of: "Turn this shit off."

Miles Davis deserves better.

Off into the bedroom she goes. Hopefully to change into her silk lingerie so she can bang me silly. She comes back, the title in hand, and proceeds before me, and holds it up, nearly jamming my wine glass up my bloody nose as I take a lingering sip.

"Does this mean nothing to you?"

A stupid question. I don't dare tell her that though.

"A ludicrous, spurious question."

Not in so many words, in any case.

"Cut the horseshit Robert."

Angrily and defiantly she tosses the heavy gold laden belt to her side, onto the floor. I hope it didn't mar the woodwork.

"I don't know what's happened to you. But you do not lose. You never lose. It will never happen again, do you understand me?"

She begins pacing around.

I wonder if Hitler talked this way to his Generals.

"Not while I am your fucking manager. You will not humiliate me in front of the world like this. EVER."

She returns before me and jabs a finger into my chest. Nail first, of course.

"You are the 'Destroyer of Worlds.'"

Check.

"Where was that bloodlust, Robert? The violence? Why didn't you spill his blood for me."

"Because he beat me."

She shrieked.

"I fucking hate you, you treat me like shit and humiliate me and he's going to fucking kick your ass again, and you know what."

"Do tell," I say collectively.

"I just might help him."

She turns to walk away.

I grab her arm and turn her around. I look deep down at her.

"You want to help him. Be my goddamn guest."

She slaps me in the face. Hard.

I cringe.

I shake my head.

"Marissah. Do not..."

Another slap, viciously. My skin burns.

"Don't you fucking dare Robert try to tell me what..."

I cut her off mid-sentence by grabbing her forcefully and shoving her backwards. She stumbles and lands on the hardwood floor of Trump Tower, beside the belt.

"You want violence?"

All right. I can do that.

I hurl my wine glass behind her. It explodes. The crystal and wine fly about, some of it hitting her hair.

"You want violence?"

I move towards a small side table and pick it up. I sigh inwardly, it's a beautiful 18th century antique, made sometime in the late 1770s. The price to pay however for my rage and vanity.

It flies across the room and smashes into the wall.

She is nearly cowering on the floor.

"More my lady?"

I walk across to a painting, one she particularly likes. I bought it for her in Paris not long ago, about twenty-five thousand dollars.

Removing it gingerly from the wall, I punch my hand through it, break the frame across my knee, and then, calming down, I return to where she is, still on the floor.

I kneel down next to her and release the painting from my grip.

I lean forward and kiss her firmly on the forehead.