The Misogynist (Republished)

Hate F*cking Elizabeth

The woman on the phone speaks into my ear in the same tone of voice a doctor would use when informing you that that lump isn't just a lump but something much more terminal.

'We really enjoyed your collection of short stories. It's obvious that you have a real talent when it comes to writing,' she says. 'But unfortunately, it's not what we're looking for at the moment.'

I'm sitting on my bed, squeezing my phone tightly in my hand. How much pressure does it take to break a phone screen? It's already covered in cracks from when I dropped it in the lift the other week. The TV's on in the other room. I can hear screams and growls and the sound of zombie brains being smashed with various implements. Probably Elizabeth is still playing Resident Evil. I don't think I can face her again with another rejection from another publisher. She's always so understanding and I hate her slightly because of it. And I hate myself for that.

'Hello? Are you still there?' the woman says.

'Yes--sorry.' How long was I zoned out?

'As I said, you have talent. But short story collections aren't really what we specialize in here. I recommend you try submitting your work to literary magazines.'

'Okay. Thanks for letting me know,' I say shortly.

'If you ever write something longer, a novella or short novel, please keep us in mind--'

I hang up and inhale slowly. I wanna fucking cry and I need a drink. Something strong. I don't hear the TV anymore. Elizabeth must know I'm finished with the call. She's gonna be so hopeful. No matter how many times I get rejected her hope never wavers. Not like me. I think I gave up my dream of being a writer five publishers ago. I get up, legs feeling wobbly. It sounds mean but I wish Elizabeth wasn't here. She's all but officially moved in with me--she spends more time here than at her student flat nowadays. And I love that she wants to be with me. She's funny and gorgeous and in all honesty, I'm punching way above my weight, but sometimes I want to be alone. Sometimes I don't want to talk about it. Sometimes I just want to get absolutely blind drunk and not have to worry about my problems.

I go into the living room. Elizabeth is on the couch, curled up under a blanket. Even without makeup, her skin is perfect and smooth. Her red hair's tied up in a messy high bun, though a couple of her bangs are loose at the front. She's so perfect.

'Hey, babe,' she says. 'How did it go?'

I don't reply. I can't look at her, so I just walk past her and head straight cupboard where we keep the booze.

'Babe?'

I grab a tumbler and take out a bottle of tequila and pour a tall drink. It burns my throat but I down half in one glug.

'They rejected you,' she says, quietly.

'What gave it away?' I say with more sharpness than intended. 'Yeah, they rejected it. Said it wasn't what they're looking for at the moment.'

'Well, don't get down about it.' She gets up, the blanket falling to the floor. She's still wearing shorts and a bra. 'There's always more publishers. Y'know Dune was rejected by like, twenty publishers before Frank Herbert finally get it published.'

'Yes, I know.' I say, turning away from her to hide my contempt. 'And so was Harry Potter and so was Lord of the Flies. You say the same thing literally every time.'