You are the shark inside my shark, you’re the second set of teeth
The roses ain’t in bloom, the thorns hide in the wreath
On my front door you bang and bang, let me in, lock me out
You hang me up, I twist, you shout
Eat me, bite me, slay me, spite me
Your body invites me and your fire ignites me and
Why are you the flame （the only one to blame, you and your game）
You swell and hide and now you lock me in this frame
Where I can’t move, I can’t breathe, I just die underneath
Cuz I’m the shark inside your shark, oh I’m the second set of teeth…
I kill the volume but I have no choice. I have to finish. I have to sing the rest.
You’re the shark inside my shark but I’m the shark inside your shark
You’re me, I’m you. What can we do? You’re me, I’m you
You gnash, I feed… you and your seed…
But do you want me in your dreams?
Do you love me when I’m clean?
Do you hear me when I—
（Cowbell）
SHARK!
It’s Rhyming for Dummies and it’s a jumbled mess of mixed metaphors but he was smart to end it with another displaced cowbell and I bet you knew that song was gonna be big. I look at your legs on his album. You want me to think you stayed for Nomi, but everything looks different now that I know about your rat. You like being a muse. You still wear your signature tights every day and his music comes from you. Just once I’d like to fall for someone who isn’t handicapped by narcissism, but it’s too late. I love you. I can’t kill his success, but I can pick up my knife.
Your rat he turns out the lights and walks down the stairs and there he is, thirty feet away, on the sidewalk. He leans against the building the same way he does on the cover of his hit single, posing for a camera that isn’t there and he lights a Marlboro Red like he’s James Fucking Dean, like his imaginary Philistans will summon the courage to emerge from the shadows. He blows smoke rings and watches them fade into the halogen mist and I don’t know how to blow smoke rings. Do you like that, Mary Kay? Are you into that kind of shit?
I slip Rachael up my sleeve and I’m ready but he pulls a rabbit out of his sleeve. His phone is ringing and he takes the call and it’s you.
“Emmy,” he says. “Babe, you okay? Why you up?”
I let the knife fall out of my sleeve. You’re awake. You were listening. I don’t call you Emmy and he says it too many times—Emmy Emmy Emmy—and he swears that he got a lot of sleep today—lazy fucker—and he tells you that he’s gonna go write through the sunrise—oh fuck you, Phil—before he hits a meeting. He swears he’ll pack his own shit for Phoenix—liar—and he chucks his cigarette in a puddle. “I’m down to two packs a day, Emmy. And now you want me to quit for a week for your dad? Are you trying to make me fall off the wagon? Is that what you want?”
I don’t know what you’re saying. He doesn’t know either because he holds the phone away. But he must be able to hear a little because he takes a deep breath and cuts you off.
“Emmy, Emmy, Emmy. Relax. For the nine millionth time… it’s a show. It’s an act. The label likes my attitude and Nomi’s friends… they’re not up listening to me. Stop caring about what other people think…” I wish I could hear you. “Emmy, Nomi doesn’t give a shit if I go to Phoenix and I told you, I’m going. You win again, babe!… What is with you, lately? What is it?” Me. It’s me! “Christ, woman, I’m missing a whole week of shows and still you’re bitching at me. What the hell more do you want from me?” You might be crying. Or apologizing. He rubs his forehead. “Emmy. Baby, come on. Don’t do that. You know I love you too.”
My blood runs cold. Hot. No.
He gets into his jalopy and turns on one of his own unknown songs and I let go of my knife. Love you too means that you said I love you. I turn on my car, I blast my Prince, but “When You Were Mine” can’t silence the shark inside my shark.
You love him. You do.
It’s a miserable drive home—A crate in a barrel, a barrel in a gun—and I shove Rachael into the glove compartment. This is worse than RIP Beck and RIP Benji. They didn’t have a child and twenty fucking years together. I have to be smart about this. Yeah, I want Phil gone. But the real problem is you, Mary Kay. In your own stunted adolescent, nurturing, self-destructive, misguided maternal, codependent way… you really do love your husband. I can run him off the road, but that would be dangerous. It might even make things worse. I need help—Hey Siri, how do you kill love?—but who am I kidding? She doesn’t know. No one knows. I have to figure it out myself, alone, while you’re in Phoenix carving turkeys and reinforcing your dysfunctional family bonds.
I drive to Taco Bell. I can have anything I want, but all I want is you, so I get one of everything.
Happy Early Fucking Thanksgiving to me.
10
It’s the most… horrible time… of the year—mid-fucking-December—and we’re in a rut. As it turns out, you’re not just beholden to your husband. You’re also responsible for your dad. You were only supposed to be in Phoenix for a week, but the day after Thanksgiving, your father fell down the stairs. The Mothball Howie Okin knows more about your father’s health than I do—we have to fix that—and Howie informed me that your dad has an osteochondral lesion, which is Howie-speak for a hole in his bone. Being the good daughter that you are, you put your rat and your Meerkat on a plane and you stayed with your dad to help him move into a new house and I don’t begrudge you for helping the old man. I’m not a what about me asshole, but your dad isn’t the only one in pain. I have a cardiochondral lesion, Mary Kay. You don’t call. You barely text. Time drags and time flies—November already turned into December—and I walk outside to get the paper and fecal-eyed Nancy is hammering a wreath onto her front door. She doesn’t wave and I don’t wave and WHEN THE FUCK ARE YOU COMING HOME, MARY KAY?
I have been so good. I didn’t kill Phil. I’ve “processed” my feelings about your secret life. I’ve given you “space.” And on the rare occasion that you do text me, I don’t harp on you about your return. I asked you exactly once and your response was infuriating. Soonish, I guess, I think.
Soonish （adj） FUCKING BULLSHIT, MARY KAY
But I’m just as bad at long-distance relationships. I look at the text I sent you last night.
Me: How ya doin’？
I couldn’t have done any worse and I know it. You are not ya and it’s a dorky, broad question, the kind of whining you don’t need right now and I pour Rice Chex into a bowl. I try to read the paper but I don’t want any more bad fucking news. I go to Love’s Instagram—I am acing Holiday Induced Self Destruction 101—and I watch my son whip his arm with another early “prezzie,” a plastic fucking sword and this is no good either so I get up. I put on your favorite black cashmere sweater and the sweater and I go outside and get into my ice-cold car. Nancy’s husband is in his car, too, warming up the Land Rover for his wife, per usual. I half-wave at him and he pretends he doesn’t see me—Happy Christmas to you too, asshole—and Nancy swans out of their house. She’s on the phone—Yes, Mom, but we need a fuller tree for our e-card photo—and I feel like the human equivalent of a fucking e-card, destined for an e–trash bin. Nancy gets into her nice warm car and she loves her husband and he loves her （maybe） and he’s a tool. She’s a tool. But they have each other and you won’t even tell me how you’re doin’。