Lauren Peters versus Peter Lawrence

“Check this out, Dylan!”

Mary Lucas carried her laptop into the kitchen, where her husband was sitting at the table, hunched over some receipts. Her footsteps faltered when she met the gaze boring into her over the tops of the spectacles. He was a man who welcomed interruptions like DJs welcome requests shouted at them in the middle of a flow.

Mary tentatively continued her approach, swivelling the laptop round so the screen was facing Dylan. She watched him swallow a curse word or three as he put a manila folder down and squinted at the website, his curiosity clearly having got the better of him. She waited with her hands clasped behind her back, a sommelier awaiting a response to the wine menu. She had a good opportunity to examine the top of Dylan’s head, noticing the coin that had appeared there last winter seemed to have levelled up from a dime to a dollar.

“They’re arguing over me,” burst out Mary in a stage whisper from behind her pinkly proud hand, Dylan wincing at her follow-up titter. “Over who gets to keep me!”

“Let me read the damn thing, would ya,” Dylan snapped. He silently mouthed the words he was reading, which were:

Hi! I just read your story, and I’m obsessed! Your writing is incredible, and I kept imagining how cool it would be as a comic. I’m a professional commissioned artist, and I’d love to work with you to turn it into one, if you’re into the idea, of course! I think it would look absolutely stunning. Feel free to message me on Discord (laurenpetersartist) Inst@gram (laurenpetersartist) if you’re interested. Can’t wait to hear from you! Best, Lauren

Followed by a comment directly under that:

Hi! I just read your story, and I’m amazed! Your writing is fantastic, and I kept imagining how well it would work as a graphic novel. I’m a professional commissioned artist, and I’d love to work with you to turn it into one, if you’re into the idea, of course! I think it would look absolutely beautiful. Feel free to message me on Discord (peterlawrenceartist) Inst@gram (peterlawrenceartist) if you’re interested. Can’t wait to hear back! Best, Peter

Dylan silently handed Mary’s laptop back to her.

“Don’t you think that’s swell?” Mary stammered, desperately searching Dylan’s immobile face. “There’s a whole thread where they bicker about who found me first.” Mary was practically hopping from foot to foot. The only sounds were her unicorn slippers keeping up with her, the buzzing of the fridge, and the rustle of receipts.

“Maybe you could read one of my stories sometime, sweetie…I mean if you can spare the time? See what all the fuss is about,” Mary said, beaming.

Dylan put his pen down, folded his arms, and after what felt like a lunchtime, looked up.

He drew in a deep breath.

“Don’t you get it, Mary? These people aren’t fighting over you. They’re not arguing about who is better suited to bringing your stories to life” – these last words animated with Dylan’s fingers forming bunny ears, spat through a grimace, eyes raging darkly. “They’re arguing over who can scam you out of the most money. Except what they don’t know is you hardly have any money because you’re obsessed with the idea of being this penniless, starving artist instead of getting a proper job!”

Mary, the robed metronome, had ceased sashaying.

“What’s the matter?” he sighed. “Why aren’t you saying anything? Goddammit. If you give that back to me, I bet I can find stories where they’ve copied and pasted the same comments a bunch of times. Actually, don’t bother. Some of us have real work to be getting on with.”

Mary’s soul, shattered by bullets of condescension, scattered itself at her feet, with other parts flying out of the window, others allocating themselves to a toaster, the most unfortunate pieces being catapulted into the litter tray.

“Why are you just standing there. What is it?” Dylan cried.

Mary finally knitted herself together enough to will motion into her limbs.

“I’m going to write. In my private place.” She hoped he hadn’t caught the break in her voice. But alas.

“Oh god, you’re locking yourself into the en-suite to have a cry again, are you? I can’t say a single thing without you overreacting!” – punctuated by Dylan picking his pen up again so he could throw it at the door Mary was closing behind her.

Mary sat on the en-suite toilet with her knickers around her ankles, examining the map of hair and cellulite formed by her thighs, because it was preferable to looking at the bathroom door and thinking about the thorny battering ram that lay behind it. And also because like most struggling writers she was fuelled by coffee and had to let some of it go.

She wasn’t going to write. That had been a cover.

Dylan had switched the TV on, putting his game on full blast, knowing how much she despised loudness. And sports.

Mary, as quietly as possible, tiptoed to the cupboard under the stairs. Under a pile of hats and scarves forming the canopy for a tower of dusty board games, she scrabbled around until her fingertips locked into place with the texture they sought. The cool, varnished wood of her paint box.

Because even if their intentions were untrue, their bickering had uncovered a truth. Her story was not very good. It barely had a plot. The characters were stereotypes. It only loosely followed the prompt. Ensconced with her treasure back in her bedroom, she brought her tale up on her phone and cringed to see a few typos had slipped through the net also.

However.

It did possess an ethereal, lyrical quality that with coarse horse hair and canvas she would coax into a painting. With each stroke of the brush she covered up everything that was bad about her ‘old life’ (and yes, it may have been only moments since her interaction with Dylan, but she did already see it as that) and began to shape a launch pad into the new.

She’d also found some earplugs in the closet. Relics from an era – their courting days – when they would go out and shout requests to DJs in nightclubs.

Mary Lucas was armed and ready for lift-off.