cannibal; kendall roy

73

Election Day.

Marguerite didn't vote. Not for Mencken or Jimenez. Not for Connor. For nobody. Her apartment was empty, except for her son. Kendall had left early for the office—and it wasn't like the pair were speaking either. Because they weren't. Last night, had been Kendall and Marguerite's big dance—a dance that would probably consume them when he eventually returned home.

They'd shoved one another in the bathroom of Shiv's apartment. She'd kicked him in the balls, and he'd tugged on her hair, actually managing to displace one of her extensions. Which he then mocked her about, saying "what kind of person needs fake hair?"

To which she had told him to not throw stones at glass houses, since it was clear he had been dyeing his for the last ten years.

Then came the threats as they drove home.

Their poor driver.

He was going to sue her into oblivion.

He was going to ruin her life.

He was going to fuck Matsson more than she had.

He was going to leave her with nothing.

He'd take their son—although he had stated he wasn't sure if that was a punishment for her. Insult after fucking insult. Their son just sitting in her lap as the ride droned on.

And then they'd gotten home, put their son to bed, and fought more.

She'd told him he was a nobody. A piece of nothing in her life. A fucking piece of glass she stepped on for amusement. A nobody. She'd chosen the word specifically—trying to dig in deep, after feeling vicariously violated by her husband.

He'd called her words that didn't quite hurt— a Whore for starters. It didn't bother her. She'd heard it before.

And then he'd switched to darker waters.

That was when she'd started breaking shit. Even though they meant nothing to Kendall; his expensive watches and clothes—his designer sweaters, they meant absolutely nothing to him. They were just objects. Items he'd purchased to either fit in or make himself feel better. It was all replaceable.

And she had been right, because he'd just laughed. Then walked off to drink a bottle.

Not a glass. A bottle.

And surprisingly enough, she'd joined him.

Their conversation had been minimal.

She could remember how most of it went. Actually, all of it. It still seemed to play over and over again in her head.

There he'd sat, almost hunched over on their sofa—or his, his hands firmly gripping the bottle. His hair disheveled and packed with sweat. Even in the calm, his eyes still lingering on her. Even despite everything, his eyes still sat on Marguerite.

And that was when he finally spoke. After the fifth swig, and one heavy sigh "I don't even know how to say this" he scoffs "I—I don't. It's uh, it's fucking insane." Kendall's voice was monotone.

"What?" She'd asked, almost sounding bored—or depressed. A mix of both in this moment.

"I uh—I uh" he groans, taking another swig from the bottle "I still love you, you know? I can't hate you, Lou."

She didn't know what to say to that. Even if she could go back to that moment, she wouldn't have known what to say.

"Just, what the fuck did I do? Huh? So I can—I can fucking fix it, and take it back. So we can get back. I want things back to how they were."