Joe sighed, irritable, as Marilyn was approached by a million different people at the corner of Lexington and 52nd. It was annoying enough how they had been dubbed "the couple of the century", although to be completely honest, he could see how read-worthy the union between the Yankee's star player and America's sweetheart must be. No, Marilyn's willingness to be stalked and photographed was what was slowly driving him insane.

Gone was the vulnerable young girl who had needed someone big and strong like Joe to protect her, and dreamed of an idyllic, average lifestyle of anonymity. Norma Jean, the innocent, doe-eyed girl Marilyn had once been, although he had never called her that, had moved on, leaving the new, "improved" Marilyn Monroe, who, Joe expected, was well on her way to becoming an international sex symbol. And Joe didn't want that. For God's sake, he was an average guy, who didn't want to share his wife with the world.

He honestly believed that she was the love of his life, and had managed to convince himself that he was the love of her's too, but now he could see that he was always going to be in competition with her fame, and he was clearly losing big-time. She had been so alone for so long and now she was adored by millions all at once, in such a way that her husband couldn't hope to top.

He watched disgusted, as a fan was set up underneath her, blowing up the skirt of the flimsy white dress she was wearing, like in her movie, exposing her long white legs that were supposed to be reserved for him. She tittered endearingly, her face the very picture of girlish embarrassment; although he knew her well enough to tell that it was faked. He walked away, not able to bear the men gawking at his beautiful wife debasing herself, staring at what they would regularly have to pay to see. He knew things were over between him and her. She had chosen her adoring fans over him, and there was nothing he could to change that.

As a news team ran up to her, he stared at her face from afar, under the pretense of fiddling with a cigarette. She was loving every second that she was in the limelight, and it was clear in every fibre of her being, from her perfectly maintained platinum blonde hair, to her expensive shoes. The paparazzi called for a shot of the perfect couple, and Marilyn called out for him, further aggravating, and saddening him.

"Joe? Joe?" she called out, in her authoritative, breathy, baby-doll voice. "Where's Joe?" she muttered to herself as she looked around for him. As she caught sight of his familiar hulking figure, although he was desperately trying to remain hidden, she smiled sweetly and ran up to him, throwing her arms around him. He instinctively caught her, as he had numerous times before; it was their routine. Whenever one of them would come home after a long day of work, Marilyn would run to him and hug him eagerly, leaving him to easily pick her up and spin her around. He set her down gently, a slightly confused, belligerent smile on her face. "My Joe", she said happily, stroking the side of his face. He caught her hand, quickly, and kissed it, tears dripping down his face. "What is it?" she said, and for a second he could see a flash of the old her.

"Marilyn", he said softly. "I love you."

"I love you too", she said, confused.

"But I can't deal with this anymore."

"Joe", she began, beginning to cry.

"You're the girl who's ten feet high, Marilyn. You don't need me anymore, and you know it", he said, trying not to sound bitter. He kissed her on the forehead, turning around and leaving, tears dripping down his face slowly.

Behind him Marilyn sobbed once. She then turned around, with that winning smile, before lifting up her dress once again. Smiling, laughing, as silently, beneath that veneered surface, her heart broke.