Sleeptalk

(O)-(O)-(O)-(O)

The blonde woman's lunacy is obvious upon sight. Maybe it's her wide-eyed, penetrating stare. Maybe it's her fingernails, grown so long that they almost curl under. Maybe it's the way she babbles to herself, without caring who hears.

"I know, Billy. . .you're always right. . .never lost a case. . .never lost a case. . . Oh, Velma, I'm sorry, I didn't know, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Billy, I refuse to wear this dress. I mean it! Don't go! Don't leave me!"

The word 'Velma' is always given special emphasis, treated with respect. It's common knowledge that she talks about Velma Kelly, the singing star who lost it all. As her partner, the blonde – Roxie- lost everything along with her. They still meet very often, the whispers implying that both are dykes. Other whispers claim that Velma, having kept all her marbles, merely pities and cares for her sick friend.

"Velma, I didn't know, I didn't know."

Then, a new voice- "It's okay, Rox. I didn't know either."

"You can't leave me, you can't."

"I'm not going to. Rox, you should really trim those nails. I know you wanted them to grow some, but this is too much."

"We're not famous anymore," Roxie reasons.

"I know. It doesn't matter anymore. They've got new stars like- like Hedy Lamarr and-"

"Clara Bow."

"No, not her. God, she went out of style years ago."

"How come we're not famous?"

There's silence. Then, "Times change, kid. Want me to brush your hair?"

"I'm sorry, Velma."

"Why?"

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Velma doesn't respond. She knows not to talk when Roxie's like this. Her autobiography from five years before says everything about her partner's peculiarity.

Roxie didn't seem to know me sometimes. She'd talk to me, but look off into space and not pay attention to anything I said. On good days, or even for a few minutes at a time, she'd realize I was there, and we'd have a conversation- always something light, nothing too serious. Roxie couldn't handle serious. Soon she'd be gone again, and I couldn't help her at all.

"Well, I guess I'd better be leaving- it's getting kind of late. Nice seeing you. Bye."

"Don't go!"

"Tomorrow, Roxie."

"You can't leave."

"I'll see you tomorrow." This time it's firmer, more commanding.
"But you can't."

The voices continue out into the hallway. Neighbours pretend they're not listening.

"Rox, you'll be okay without me. We've been over this before."

"Velma, I love you, I love you, don't leave me! Stay here!"

All of a sudden, there's an almighty commotion. Some of the tenants run out to see what's going on.

Velma Kelly's lying at the bottom of the stairs, crumpled in an unnatural shape. Someone runs down and confirms the obvious: she's gone. Roxie, meanwhile, has disappeared into her apartment, without anyone seeing her.

The coroner is unable to tell if Miss Kelly fell or was pushed. Guesses fly around everywhere, but eventually they die down. The deceased is buried at a service nobody attends. After a while, people begin to forget.

Roxie moves to a different building. Though these tenants are less nosy, they can't help but wonder at the whispers coming through the thin walls.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. . ."