Romance with Failure

“You just don’t understand me.”

Wasn’t that what they all said? Some version of that. Their wives. Their girlfriends. It was always someone else who didn’t understand. 

“I think I do," Beth said.

“You don’t.”

He had her in his arms on the overstuffed second-hand sofa, and he was kissing her slowly, moving his way down from her lips to the curve of her neck to the dip between her collar bones. 

“I think I do,” she whispered, but her breathing was speeding up.

“Nope, if you understood me, you’d never let me do this…” And now he was unbuttoning her blouse, and she sighed and arched her body to help him. 

“What would I be doing?” she asked, her eyelids fluttering.

“You’d be at your desk, working on a redo. A fix. You wouldn’t let a silly little rejection letter get in the way of your big dream.”

“It wasn’t a little rejection letter…” Beth stopped paying attention to the kissing.

“If you want something, you’re going to have to really buckle down and work hard.”

“What do you think I do all day? Are you kidding me?” She gripped her shirt closed and pulled away from him.

“See, there ya go…”

“I don’t understand.”

“I told you. If you understood me, you’d be at your typewriter, knocking out the next draft. You wouldn’t be giving in so easily.”

“Giving in?”

“To a monster like me…”

She settled against the pillows and looked at him. Handsome, tousled hair, blue eyes, smoking hot. Smoking in fact now, leaning against the sofa cushions, lighting up without even asking her permission. But it didn’t really matter, did it. If he was… 

“What? Fictitious? You think I'm … NOT REAL?” He put the back of one hand to his forehead in mock indignation.

She didn’t know how to respond to that. She was relatively sure she was all by herself in the tiny studio apartment. But those smoke rings heading toward the ceiling seemed real enough for her to put a finger through.

How had she gotten here, with him? She’d been crying into one of the sofa cushions when suddenly, and seamlessly, she’d been kissing this man, as if she’d always known him, as if he was one of her exes. Her mind had felt hot and hazy, but kissing him hadn’t seemed inappropriate in the least. The dreamlike manner in which he’d appeared had made sense.

“Got any wine?” he asked now, and rolling with the insanity of the request, she went to the cupboard and pulled out the half-bottle of red. 

“Glasses?” he asked next, in a weary way, as if to point out her lack of hostess behavior.

“Sure, sure,” she said, and she grabbed a jelly glass from the strainer and filled it half-full. 

“Ah, so you’re an optimist,” he said, noticing the line.

“Not today, I’m not.”

“That’s right. You were crying into your pillow, weren’t you?”

“What business is it of yours?” she asked, feeling indignant. Could a writer not even have a few moments to wallow in a pity party when nobody was looking? Except he was looking. Meeting her eyes as he sipped her cheap wine.

“Now, where were we?” he pondered, slowly. “Oh, right, you were not believing in me.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I do, of course. You’re… you’re…”

“Failure.” He said. “Duh. Failure. F-A-I-L-U-R-E.”

“That’s your name?”

“Last name. First name is Mitch. Glad to finally meet you. I mean, you worry about me all the time. You pace. You walk. You find yourself muttering in the shower as you wash your hair, and you really ought to wash your hair tonight. I don’t think you can get another day out of it, do you?”

She touched her ponytail. 

“The thing is,” he said, “most people don’t get me. Don’t understand me at all. Failure is not an option, they say. But it is, and I am. And it’s not like you choose me on purpose, obviously. Don’t worry. My feelings aren’t hurt. But whether you tried your best and didn’t succeed or dialed it in and went belly-up, I’m right there for you.”

“You’re here for me?”

He parked his glass on the top of her bookshelf, stubbed his cigarette out on the heel of his shoe, and then reached for her again. In spite of herself, she came into his arms. His next kiss was smokey and redolent of the cheap grocery-store red. “Yeah, baby. I’m here for you. I’m always here for you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Right? That’s my whole point. I’m…” he shook his hair off his face…. “Misunderstood.” He said the word with a type of pride.

This had to be a dream, she decided. But she stood from the sofa and started to pace, wall to wall easily in the small place, from the kitchenette against the far left to the windows looking out on the tiny balcony. “So you’re saying that you ARE failure.”

“Yup.”

“Embodied?”

He pinched himself and squealed.

“And I don’t understand you?” she asked.

“Precisely.”

She paced again. 

“I don’t get it,” she said. “You’re so… seductive.” She licked her lips, feeling his kiss. “You’re somehow trying to tell me that you being here is a good thing?”

“Colder,” he said.

She shot him a look and kept pacing. When she got to the balcony, she looked at the card-table to the right, where her typewriter was and the rejection letter she’d received earlier in the afternoon. She fingered the envelope.

“Warmer,” Failure said from behind her.

“Oh, so you know about this?”

He began to quote the letter verbatim employing a level of over-the-top drama generally employed at amateur Shakespeare performances: "Dear Elizabeth, Thank you so much for allowing us to read your short romance story. Unfortunately, we do not feel the piece is appropriate for our magazine at this time. We wish you the best of luck in placing your story with a different venue."

“It’s my seventh one.”

“I know.”

“Maybe I’m no good.”

“Maybe,” he agreed, holding out his wine glass for more. She topped him off. He patted the sofa next at his side.

“I am good,” she said, incensed.

He shrugged.

“Dude, I’m a good writer. I just haven’t found the right place for my story yet. Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance was rejected 121 times. It’s sold more than five million copies. And Carrie was rejected 30 times. Catch-22 was rejected 22 times and Heller was told it lacked humor and a clear plot. George Orwell. Madeline L’Engle. Frank Herbert…”

“Yeah,” he said, “I know.”

“Oh, right, because YOU’RE failure.”

“See, you’re getting it. You’re smart. Most people? Well, it takes them longer. But what do you feel like doing right now?” He batted his lashes.

She shook her head. “I have this idea for a story, and I should really put some of the notes on paper or I’ll lose it.”

“You mean, you’re feeling… motivated?”

She had stopped pacing and had her hand on her chair, pulling it out, ready to sit at her desk again.

He was on his back on her sofa, and he’d lit another cigarette and was inhaling French style.

“If you don’t mind,” she said.

“Oh, do you want me to leave?”

She widened her eyes at him. “Yeah. I don’t think I can work with you in the room.”

He yawned and stretched and let his cigarette dangle from his insolent lips and then said, “Fine, I know when I’m not wanted.”

“I’m sure I’ll see you again,” she said resigned.

“Yeah. I mean, freelance writer?” He chuckled. “We’re going to be, like, best friends.”

“So… where are you going now?”

“Oh, there’s this dude down the hall trying to get into grad school. I’m going to break his heart tonight when he collects his mail in the lobby, but you know what?” He leaned in to whisper the words. “He’s actually going to be an astronaut one day.”