By Emily Voigt
There are countless ways a man can kill a woman, but we’re never told about boredom. The exact reason I went to that low-ceilinged, jazz-playing restaurant with him escapes me. I presume it was a mix of feeling guilty for tasting acid in my throat when he asked me out, feeling even guiltier at the prospect of actually declining his offer and that strangely rewarding feeling of knowing he wanted me. When he explained the Godfather to me, I knew he was going to bore me into my grave.
At dinner I worried I had parsley stuck between my teeth as he told me about his band, who apparently were heavily influenced by Oasis but didn’t care much for the Beatles. I wanted to make a joke about the irony there, my knowledge on music more extensive than most men gave me credit for, but I knew I couldn’t name three Oasis songs if put on the spot. I just really liked the Beatles and him mentioning them felt like an oasis in this wasteland that was our first date. (That was a quote from the movie Kill Your Darlings. I never got to the point of telling him I knew cinema that didn’t involve Jude Law or Hugh Grant). He didn’t smile very much, he probably grasped the finality of death before he could ride a bike, while the rest of us were still eating handfuls of sand. I tried making him laugh and succeeded when I told him I dreamed of becoming a primary school teacher. He got none of my jokes.
I didn’t die when he smacked his lips during desert, or any time he checked his reflection in his spoon that was partly smeared with chocolate mousse, in awe even of his distorted and elongated reflection. I didn’t die when he explained why his ex was insane (she called him after they had broken up to get her laptop back), although I did hear a faint choir, then. It didn’t kill me when he announced himself an existential nihilist and an ardent lover of Bukowski. I did almost pass out when he asked me a question.
Just smile and nod along, is what I thought to myself as he droned on, and on, and on, and on, and on. And on. There was a dull ache forming in my neck and cheeks and I felt the need to clear my throat. I faintly wondered whether it would turn him off if I looked like one of those bobble-head toys of the queen they sell in front of the Buckingham Palace. Nod and smile. Smile and nod.
He said his father was his greatest hero and the left corner of my mouth started to rip, like it sometimes does when I yawn. He copied his morning routine from Patrick Bateman. My spine cracked in my neck.
I’m not sure if he noticed my lipstick started to mix with blood as the evening progressed, or that my head was tilting more and more to the right. The only time he stopped talking was when he rolled himself a cigarette and played me a video of his last gig that went on for about six minutes. Even though he looked at me uncomfortably the entire time, watchful of whether my mmmhs and ahhhs were appropriately enthusiastic, he never noticed the broken off bone slowly drilling a hole into the parfumed flesh of my neck from the inside. I cannot pinpoint exactly when my soul left my body, but it must have been shortly after every woman’s favourite, the monologue about the „offside“ rule in football.
Was this murder? What degree? An accident? Surely he didn’t mean to hurt me, they never do.
And now? Heaven? Hell? I don’t really care, as long as Al Pacino was never there.
Emily Voigt is a writer from Germany who, despite it not being her first language, writes in English. Her poetry has been published with Bitter Melon Review and Midsummer Magazine. This is her debut fiction work.
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