Disclaimer: I know I've been MIA for a long time, and I'm sorry for that. Other project distractions and writers block (at the same time) are never a good thing, especially for me. And I know I should probably be working on my Hey! Arnold fics, and I am kinda-sorta. But I was watching this movie this morning, and felt the need to write it. I could probably work it in with Suku but . . . I don't want to! Read, Review, and Spread the word.

CoaHTR

She is stupid. So very, very, very stupid. That damned woman, damned stupid woman. I hate her, I think I really do hate her. With all her conniving and trickery and sneaking around. Her obvious contempt for Brother-Man and Sister-Woman and their five whelps – a contempt which is equally returned. I hate the woman who slept with my best friend, my hero, Skipper, and then helped drive him to suicide. I hate her.

Maggie the Cat.

My wife.

But what I hate even more than her, is myself. Myself for still loving her, still needing her. How when she changes, even something simple like her stockings, I can't help but watch. Watch as she gently rolls the fabric down her smooth and tanned legs, rubbing them once or twice for good measure before sliding up a new pair.

I still remember what it felt like to have my own hand run up those legs. To feel the pressure of her thighs as they squeezed my naked waist in ecstasy when my thrusting hit a particularly pleasurable spot. I can still taste her sweat and flesh from her neck as I kiss her frantically, my name falling chaotically from her lips in fresh moans. Can still feel her –

"Why are you lookin' at me like that?"

Caught again. And so I lie. I tell her I'm not looking at her, and she goes off again, persuading me, pleading me to have a child with her. How Gooper and Mae hold the fact that we have no children above our heads so cruelly. I don't bother to tell her that Mae and Gooper's kids more than make up for our lack of offspring. But what I do tell her is I don't want a child with her, no, not with her. I don't want a child with her because of her: what if she wants to use the child to get in good with Big Daddy and Big Mamma, so she's secure when Big Daddy passes? No, she may be Maggie the Cat but her claws aren't that sharp.

I suppose than I don't want a child with her mostly because of myself. That if I treat Maggie this way, how'll I treat the kid? If I threatened to kill her with my crutch, will I do the same thing to a child? But maybe the biggest problem of all is that if we did have a kid, I'd have to stop drinking.

And I know I don't have the strength and courage to do that.

She thinks I hate her completely, and that's why the only time I'll turn down a glass of bourbon is if she drank out of the glass first. But that's not true, and that stupid woman can't see why. It's not because I hate her. It's because her lips touched that glass. And if her lips touched that glass, then my lips touched that same place, then it would be like we had kissed. So if we kissed that way, what would stop me from casting aside my glass of whiskey, taking her roughly in my arms and kissing that opulent red lipstick off her lips?

I have other moments of weakness. When we argue, and the heat rushes to her face. Her voice rises and her eyes flash with a fire I hadn't seen in a long time. I want to hold her and kiss her then, too. Or when I collapsed against the bathroom door after such an argument, finding comfort in her nightgown that proudly hung there. I could still smell her on the intricate lace, her soap, perfume, and skin melding together into something that made my heartache and memories flash.

Is it even possible to feel both absolute love and absolute disdain for one single person at the same time?

I didn't think so.

Damn her. Damn her to hell, that woman. And damn me too.

She's right; that stupid and hellacious woman is right. We aren't livin' together, we're just sharing the same cage. But with all the mendacity flying in the household we're coped up in for Big Daddy's 65th and probably final birthday party, I can't help but feel that she's the purist creature here. The lies and those who tell them are easily swept up and away, but she's managed to stay safe and secure. But that poor girl, poor Maggie the Cat, she doesn't realize that she has fallen victim to a lie.

For all my hate of mendacity and those who spread it, I am the worst offender of them all. She, Margaret Pollitt, is the center for all my mendacity, and she doesn't even know it. Stupid woman. Stupid, stupid woman. I hate her.

Just not as much as she thinks.

CoaHTR