2004
Monica lay across Rachel's old bed, hugging a pillow and willing herself not to clean. Chandler's new 'study' was a hurricane of books, papers, and crap that she'd been forced to swear not to touch. "And then Brian ordered Roma tomatoes instead of..."
"Mmm-hmm?" Chandler murmured politely. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.
"... so I ripped all his clothes off, and starting licking his belly button, when suddenly we were interrupted by the clowns from Saturn..."
"Mmm-hmm?"
Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.
"Chandler, you're not listening to me. At all."
"Of course I am. You were talking about the tomatoes..."
"Chandler, you can't grab one noun out of an entire conversation and convince me you're listening. I *know* that trick, okay?"
"I'm sorry, Mon, it's just... I mean, it's tomatoes. Why are you talking to me about tomatoes? What do I know about tomatoes?"
Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.
"I am not talking about tomatoes. I am *trying* to tell my husband about my day. It's strange, but I seem to remember a time when he'd *ask* me about it."
"I'm sorry, sweetie," Chandler sighed, turning his computer chair around to face her. "How was your day?"
"Well, Brian screwed up the ordering... you know, that thing I already told you about?"
"Look, you wanted me to ask, I'm asking. Why are you biting my head off?"
"Do you know what today is?"
"National Bitch At Your Spouse For No Reason Day? And me with no balloons."
Monica's lip trembled. "I'm ovulating."
"Oh, okay," Chandler sighed, turning back to the computer. "Just let me save this." He reached for the mouse with his right hand, using the left to unbutton his shirt. He clicked twice and stood, unbuckling his belt buckle. "You wanna do it here?"
"Oh, god," Monica groaned, covering her eyes with her hands.
He sighed in irritation. "What? Too much clutter? What?"
"I can't do this, Chandler. I can't. Not another month of you taking ... *insemination breaks*."
"Hey," Chandler said angrily. "*I'm* not the one who only wants to have sex on the days circled in pink."
"Sure. If you had your way, we'd never do it at all."
"That's *not* true. Whenever I'm in the mood, you're asleep or at work."
"Whose fault is that?" Monica cried out. "Even if we were on the same schedule, you'd probably figure out some way to strap your laptop to my back."
"Hey, why didn't I think of that?" Chandler spat sarcastically.
"Maybe you were too busy," Monica huffed, gesturing angrily at his monitor.
Chandler stood with eyes blazing, holding the ends of the belt. "Are we doing this or not?"
"Yeah, yeah, we're doing it." Monica laid back in the pile of papers strewn across the bed and reached down to grab the hem of her skirt.
"Not even getting all the way undressed, huh?"
"What's the point?"
"You know, seeing you like this... your eyes, so filled with resentment, your face... so flecked with angry spittle... it just fills me with passion."
"Will you shut up and do this?"
"Hey, Mon? Not sure if you missed that day in anatomy, but I do have to be at least somewhat turned-on for this to work."
"Just close your eyes and think of Microsoft Word. That should do the trick, huh?"
Chandler buckled his pants and stared down at her. "Hey, guess what? We're not having sex, and I'm goin' to Joey's."
"Are you suuuuuuure?" Monica taunted, springing forward on the bed. "Can you stand to be away from your computer that long? Won't it get looooonely without you?"
"Bite me," Chandler said succinctly, slamming the door behind him.
Monica rocked back on her calves, looking between the door and the computer in a white-hot rage. She pushed herself off the bed and dropped into Chandler's computer chair.
She glared at the screen, momentarily tempted to do something horrible. She tentatively took the mouse in hand, wriggling the cursor around, finally clicking on a double arrow. The page blinked, replaced with a 24 point type heading. Chapter One.
Monica leaned forward and began to read.
***
Brian turned off the "open" sign and walked to the back of the kitchen, gathering empty hotel pans as he went. He set them down heavily next to the sink and did a double-take.
"Um... Monica? You're head chef. What the hell are you doing washing dishes?"
"I sent Jason home," she said, wiping at her eyes with her upper arm.
"Was he sick?"
"No, I... I just felt like washing dishes."
"You're weird. You know that, right? These are totally disgusting."
"Yeah, but..." Monica took a deep breath, looking at the ceiling, blinking hard. "It's just... calming... to be able to take this huge mess and make it all better."
"Hang on," Brian smiled, unbuttoning his white cuffs and rolling up his sleeves. "I'll help. You talk."
Monica sighed. "Okay, you know how my husband writes books."
"Yeah, I read his first one. It was really good... I mean, hilarious, but so moving..." Brian broke off, plate in hand. "You're obviously not in the mood for my book review."
"Nope, not so much. Anyway, he's written a new one. A detective story."
"Oh...?"
"And the villain is..." she choked up again. "The villain is *me*."
"Oh my god, he *told* you that?"
"No, no, he doesn't even know that I've read it. He doesn't like for any of us to read them until he's done editing. It's the first draft."
"Well, then... how do you know it's you?"
"Because I'm not an idiot, okay? This woman... she's a clean freak, a-and a chef. She has eleven categories of towels, just like I do. She even looks like me. My mannerisms, the little things I say... it's all in there."
"Wow."
"But this woman... she's a total bitch. I mean, she's awful. She seems okay in the beginning, you actually think she's gonna be the love interest, but as the story goes along, she just gets more and more evil. I can't believe that's how my husband sees me, you know?"
"Maybe it's not," Brian offered. "Maybe he's just writing what he knows. He knows what it's like to be involved with a chef, so he made this chick one."
Monica slammed a glass down on the rack. "You don't understand, okay? This woman *is* me. There's little private jokes in there, there's no way to misunderstand, she's *me*."
"Why would he do that?"
"Because that's what he *does*. His last book, okay, remember 'Ryan' and 'Eden'...? *Totally* based on my brother Ross and his ex-girlfriend. 'Penelope' and 'Francis' are my friends Phoebe and Joey. He took all his mother's characters and mapped them to someone he knows. It's the only way he got the book finished, the only way he could come up with a plot."
Monica set the last dish on the sideboard. "And it's not just that, it's more than that, it's..."
"C'mon," Brian said, drying his hands on a towel. "You can help me close the bar. And by 'close', I of course mean 'drink everything'."
***
"And then, after Rachel had Emma, Chandler and I started trying for a baby," Monica said unsteadily, sliding a little lower on her barstool. "It's been two years and nothing. Nothing."
"Wow," Brian sighed, pouring a little more Scotch in her glass. "That happened to some friends of mine. Have you guys seen a doctor?"
"Not yet," Monica said. "Chandler thought we should, but... that's not the way I want it to happen, you know? Bunch of doctors, Chandler jerking off in a little room, me getting hauled around and shot in the butt. My friend Phoebe went through it, she said it was awful."
"It's just not fair," she continued. "Ross and Rachel got horny and drunk and -bam!- they have this beautiful little girl they didn't even *want*. Me, I want kids more than anything, and it's just not happening."
"We're doing everything right, too," she moaned. "Chandler's wearing boxers and pants two sizes too big for him, I'm taking folic acid, we're not having sex except on the days I'm ovulating..."
"Damn, that must suck. Sex once a month? I'd go insane."
Monica laughed bitterly. "Oh, believe me, I'm lucky to get it then. Not that it's exactly a great experience."
Brian took a sip of his drink. "Whaddya mean?"
"It's not like sex. It's like... *breeding*. I announce that I'm ovulating, and it's wham, bam, operation performed, ma'am."
"Wow... I... don't know what to say."
"It'd almost be okay, you know, if anything else was the same. But he used to be so affectionate, you know? Kissed me all the time, sat with his arm around me, held my hand, snuggled up to me. But he doesn't even sleep next to me at night. So it's not just that I'm horny, you know, or lonely, which oh god, I so am, but it's like... I'm starved for touch. Like those babies i-in the orphanages on CNN."
She touched her eyes with her sleeve again. "It's so stupid, I... I find myself *picking* on people, you know? Trying to start tickle fights and stuff. I got into this wrestling match with my friend Joey last week, for about five minutes, and it was... it was the nicest thing that's happened to me all month, just to be close to someone. It's like I'm... it's like I'm cold all the time."
Brian looked uncomfortable. "Why don't you tell your husband this stuff?"
"Because he doesn't *listen* to me. Ever. I'm an annoyance, I'm an interruption, when I do get him to talk to me, he's all defensive. Y'know, Brian, I swear to god, whenever I talk, he hears it like the adults on 'Charlie Brown', y'know, 'wha wha-wha wha, wha wha-wha-wha, wha'. I can't compete with his stupid book... I'm just not as interesting to him."
"Oh, Monica, that can't be true," Brian said kindly. "You're *very* interesting, and totally gorgeous, and so..."
Monica cut him off with a kiss. Brian responded for a brief moment before pulling back.
"Hey, um, huh," Brian stuttered, touching her face. "Um, look... you're really nice, and I-I do kinda have a crush on you, I guess you must know that... if you weren't married I'd be all over you... but you *are* married."
"Oh, god," Monica cried out in humiliation, burying her head in her arms.
"Hey, look, um..." Brian said. "Have you thought about writing him a letter?"
"I *live* with him!"
"I know, but hear me out. You know, you start talking to someone, they start getting defensive, the whole conversation veers off somewhere you didn't want it to go, and you never get to say what you wanted to say. And sometimes, if you could have gotten them to listen to *everything* you had to say, they wouldn't be mad."
"That makes sense," Monica sniffed.
"Just write him a letter and tell him everything you told me, okay?"
***
"Hey, reclusive author Chandler Bing," Rachel called, sticking her head in the guest room. "Where the hell's your wife?"
"I think she's working late," Chandler said, tapping away at the keys.
"Damn, Chandler, this room's as messy as when I lived here," Rachel grinned, letting herself in and sitting on the bed. "You almost done with the book?"
"Mostly. I'm done with the story. I just have to go back and edit some stuff, or Monica will kill me."
"Whaddya mean?"
"Well, when the story started, there was this character based on Monica, who was going to be the love interest."
"Uh-huh..."
"But as I kept writing, it was like, *pathetically* obvious who the killer was. Not a very good mystery, right? So I decided hey, I'll make the *real* killer the person I've set up to be the sweet love interest, that will surprise everyone."
"Nice," Rachel nodded.
"So now I'm just going back and changing a lot of details about the love interest character, so she's not so much like Monica in the beginning. Can you imagine the ass-kicking I'd get if Monica thought I'd made her a serial killer in my book?"
"I'm seeing your gravestone in my mind," Rachel laughed.
"So yeah, I'm just changing that stuff, and then I'll print it out and get you guys to read it."
"Hey, Chandler...? Look, it's none of my business, but... didn't you and Monica have a pretty big fight yesterday?"
"Yeah," he admitted. "I don't really know what happened. She was in here, sitting where you were, kinda babbling about tomatoes, and all of a sudden she was yelling at me."
"Look, Chandler. Don't take this the wrong way, but... I realize that writing is new and fun for you, but I think you have to set some limits for yourself."
"Huh?"
"Okay. Remember when the night chef quit at Allesandro's, and Monica worked doubles for two weeks? Remember how lonely you got, how much you missed her?"
"Oh god," Chandler said in sudden realization.
"And this hasn't been two weeks, Chandler. It's been months and months. She never sees you, we never see you, you never go out anymore. I know how much I miss you, and how much Joey misses you... god, I can't even imagine how much Monica misses you."
"Just think about this," Rachel continued. "Imagine how much more supportive Monica would be of your writing if you did it, say, eight to ten hours a day, mostly while she was at work. At night, you could go out, hang out with her, sleep while she was sleeping... hey, call it research. How are you gonna base all your characters on your real life if you *have* no life, huh?"
"Oh my god, Rach -- I'm a moron. I'm a big fat moron," Chandler said in horror.
"So don't be one," Rachel smiled, standing up and kissing him on the cheek. "Why don't you clean up a little, maybe get some flowers, meet Monica when she gets home?"
"I could get takeout -- do a candlelight dinner thing."
"Good, good. This is all good, honey. I gotta go put Emma to bed, but I'll see you around this week -- right?"
"Right," Chandler smiled.
***
Monica let herself in the door, a little unsteadily. Chandler must be over at Joey's... the apartment was quiet, not a tap-tap-tap to be heard.
She walked quietly to the guest room and let herself inside. Chandler's computer was still on. She sat down and peered at the screen.
"My Computer"... "My Documents"... aha. "Microsoft Word".
She clicked twice, and a blank page appeared on the screen.
"Dear Chandler," she typed, and a little paper clip appeared on the side of the screen.
"It looks like you're writing a letter," it said, and asked if she wanted any help.
Argh, stupid computers. She continued typing, hunting and pecking for the keys with two fingers. "I really wish you'd spend more time with me, ever since you started working on your books, I feel like I never get to see you."
She hit the space bar, and suddenly, a green squiggly line appeared underneath her words. What the hell? She didn't want them underlined in green squiggly. How did she get that off?
She hunted for something to get the green squiggly line off and only succeeded in making her letters huge and slanty. "Stupid computer. I hate you", she typed, and laughed to herself. Like she could hurt the computer's feelings. She clicked on the green squiggly line, and the whole thing turned black.
Dammit, dammit, dammit. She tried typing again, and the first two lines disappeared.
Argh!!
She moved the little bar thingey to the beginning, and a box popped up in front of everything, asking her if she'd like to save her document.
She hit "yes", and it wanted her to name it. L-E-T-T-E-R, she typed carefully, and it popped up another damned box.
See, this was why God had meant for people to use a freaking pen and a sheet of paper. What had she been thinking?
She hit "enter" until all the boxes went away, hit the X on Microsoft Word, and pushed herself away from the computer with a groan.
She'd write Chandler a real letter, on paper, tomorrow. She was going to bed.
***
Chandler shoved the bouquet underneath the arm holding the Thai food sack and brought out his keys, letting himself into the apartment.
Monica wasn't in the main room. He set down the food and the flowers and walked towards the bedroom, pushing the door open quietly.
Monica was crashed out, snoring softly, sprawled across the bed. He smiled to himself. She was really, really, cute when she snored.
He bit his lip, deciding. If he woke her up now, she'd probably be grumpy, and his whole 'candlelit dinner' thing wouldn't go too well. Or, he could put the food in the fridge, finish his editing tonight, and be able to spend all the time with her he wanted tomorrow.
That was a better idea, yeah.
He stuffed the cartons in the fridge, put the flowers in some water, and walked towards his study, sliding into his computer chair.
He double-clicked on the icon for his book, turning around in his chair to grab some pages of research from the bed.
He turned back, and his jaw dropped.
He must have opened the wrong file. This one said nothing but "I hate you" in huge italic letters.
His eyes flew to the title bar. This *was* "letter.doc". Maybe he'd opened a file with the right name in the wrong folder?
No, no, this was "letter.doc" in "My Documents". This *was* his book file.
He changed the view settings, looked at the Last Modified date. Oh my god. It was tonight, while he was out getting the food.
Monica had erased his book.
*Monica* had erased his *book*.
Shit. Shit. Shit. When was the last time he'd backed his computer up? He grabbed a stack of CD's and read his own handwriting with horror.
March.
He'd last backed up in March.
He'd been on Chapter One in March.
He turned back to the screen, where "I hate you" continued to glow in enormous letters.
Oh my god. Oh my god. How could she do this? Why would she do this?
How the hell was he going to face her tomorrow? Hi, sweetie, did you have a nice night destroying my life's work because you thought I spent too much time on it?
No, no, that wasn't it at all, was it?
Monica hated the book because she couldn't control it, couldn't control him when he was writing it. Ever since they'd started dating, he'd been totally whipped by her. Now he wasn't, and she couldn't stand it. This was his *punishment* for crossing her.
He couldn't be here when she woke up. He was too angry, too hurt, he would say things he'd regret, might do even worse things.
He turned back to the screen, erased the "I hate you" with a pang through his heart, and began to type.
***
Monica stumbled out of the bedroom, hungover and confused. No Chandler in bed. No tap-tap-tap-tap. Had he slept at Joey's?
Her heart leaped when she saw a vase of roses on the kitchen table, with a printed note stuck underneath. He'd brought her flowers! He hadn't done that in ages!
She nearly skipped over to the table, and pulled the note out from underneath the vase.
She read the first few lines, and dropped into a kitchen chair, knees giving out from underneath her.
"Dear Monica," the note began.
"I know what you did, and I don't know what to say. I just can't look at you right now. The thing that just kills me is that I was trying to make up with you last night... I guess you're probably looking at the flowers I was bringing to you. I know you've been feeling neglected -- Rachel can fill you in on the conversation we had -- but this, this was not the way to express your anger, okay? I'm... anyway, there's no point in talking more, I'm too angry right now."
"I'm going away for a while. I'll be back as soon as my brain works again."
"I still love you."
"Chandler."
Monica let the note fall from her hand. Dear God. He'd seen her kissing Brian. He must have come down to the restaurant when she hadn't come home.
With flowers. He'd come down with flowers. And he'd been standing there, looking through the window, seeing...
Oh my god.
-------------------
To be continued...
Monica lay across Rachel's old bed, hugging a pillow and willing herself not to clean. Chandler's new 'study' was a hurricane of books, papers, and crap that she'd been forced to swear not to touch. "And then Brian ordered Roma tomatoes instead of..."
"Mmm-hmm?" Chandler murmured politely. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.
"... so I ripped all his clothes off, and starting licking his belly button, when suddenly we were interrupted by the clowns from Saturn..."
"Mmm-hmm?"
Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.
"Chandler, you're not listening to me. At all."
"Of course I am. You were talking about the tomatoes..."
"Chandler, you can't grab one noun out of an entire conversation and convince me you're listening. I *know* that trick, okay?"
"I'm sorry, Mon, it's just... I mean, it's tomatoes. Why are you talking to me about tomatoes? What do I know about tomatoes?"
Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.
"I am not talking about tomatoes. I am *trying* to tell my husband about my day. It's strange, but I seem to remember a time when he'd *ask* me about it."
"I'm sorry, sweetie," Chandler sighed, turning his computer chair around to face her. "How was your day?"
"Well, Brian screwed up the ordering... you know, that thing I already told you about?"
"Look, you wanted me to ask, I'm asking. Why are you biting my head off?"
"Do you know what today is?"
"National Bitch At Your Spouse For No Reason Day? And me with no balloons."
Monica's lip trembled. "I'm ovulating."
"Oh, okay," Chandler sighed, turning back to the computer. "Just let me save this." He reached for the mouse with his right hand, using the left to unbutton his shirt. He clicked twice and stood, unbuckling his belt buckle. "You wanna do it here?"
"Oh, god," Monica groaned, covering her eyes with her hands.
He sighed in irritation. "What? Too much clutter? What?"
"I can't do this, Chandler. I can't. Not another month of you taking ... *insemination breaks*."
"Hey," Chandler said angrily. "*I'm* not the one who only wants to have sex on the days circled in pink."
"Sure. If you had your way, we'd never do it at all."
"That's *not* true. Whenever I'm in the mood, you're asleep or at work."
"Whose fault is that?" Monica cried out. "Even if we were on the same schedule, you'd probably figure out some way to strap your laptop to my back."
"Hey, why didn't I think of that?" Chandler spat sarcastically.
"Maybe you were too busy," Monica huffed, gesturing angrily at his monitor.
Chandler stood with eyes blazing, holding the ends of the belt. "Are we doing this or not?"
"Yeah, yeah, we're doing it." Monica laid back in the pile of papers strewn across the bed and reached down to grab the hem of her skirt.
"Not even getting all the way undressed, huh?"
"What's the point?"
"You know, seeing you like this... your eyes, so filled with resentment, your face... so flecked with angry spittle... it just fills me with passion."
"Will you shut up and do this?"
"Hey, Mon? Not sure if you missed that day in anatomy, but I do have to be at least somewhat turned-on for this to work."
"Just close your eyes and think of Microsoft Word. That should do the trick, huh?"
Chandler buckled his pants and stared down at her. "Hey, guess what? We're not having sex, and I'm goin' to Joey's."
"Are you suuuuuuure?" Monica taunted, springing forward on the bed. "Can you stand to be away from your computer that long? Won't it get looooonely without you?"
"Bite me," Chandler said succinctly, slamming the door behind him.
Monica rocked back on her calves, looking between the door and the computer in a white-hot rage. She pushed herself off the bed and dropped into Chandler's computer chair.
She glared at the screen, momentarily tempted to do something horrible. She tentatively took the mouse in hand, wriggling the cursor around, finally clicking on a double arrow. The page blinked, replaced with a 24 point type heading. Chapter One.
Monica leaned forward and began to read.
***
Brian turned off the "open" sign and walked to the back of the kitchen, gathering empty hotel pans as he went. He set them down heavily next to the sink and did a double-take.
"Um... Monica? You're head chef. What the hell are you doing washing dishes?"
"I sent Jason home," she said, wiping at her eyes with her upper arm.
"Was he sick?"
"No, I... I just felt like washing dishes."
"You're weird. You know that, right? These are totally disgusting."
"Yeah, but..." Monica took a deep breath, looking at the ceiling, blinking hard. "It's just... calming... to be able to take this huge mess and make it all better."
"Hang on," Brian smiled, unbuttoning his white cuffs and rolling up his sleeves. "I'll help. You talk."
Monica sighed. "Okay, you know how my husband writes books."
"Yeah, I read his first one. It was really good... I mean, hilarious, but so moving..." Brian broke off, plate in hand. "You're obviously not in the mood for my book review."
"Nope, not so much. Anyway, he's written a new one. A detective story."
"Oh...?"
"And the villain is..." she choked up again. "The villain is *me*."
"Oh my god, he *told* you that?"
"No, no, he doesn't even know that I've read it. He doesn't like for any of us to read them until he's done editing. It's the first draft."
"Well, then... how do you know it's you?"
"Because I'm not an idiot, okay? This woman... she's a clean freak, a-and a chef. She has eleven categories of towels, just like I do. She even looks like me. My mannerisms, the little things I say... it's all in there."
"Wow."
"But this woman... she's a total bitch. I mean, she's awful. She seems okay in the beginning, you actually think she's gonna be the love interest, but as the story goes along, she just gets more and more evil. I can't believe that's how my husband sees me, you know?"
"Maybe it's not," Brian offered. "Maybe he's just writing what he knows. He knows what it's like to be involved with a chef, so he made this chick one."
Monica slammed a glass down on the rack. "You don't understand, okay? This woman *is* me. There's little private jokes in there, there's no way to misunderstand, she's *me*."
"Why would he do that?"
"Because that's what he *does*. His last book, okay, remember 'Ryan' and 'Eden'...? *Totally* based on my brother Ross and his ex-girlfriend. 'Penelope' and 'Francis' are my friends Phoebe and Joey. He took all his mother's characters and mapped them to someone he knows. It's the only way he got the book finished, the only way he could come up with a plot."
Monica set the last dish on the sideboard. "And it's not just that, it's more than that, it's..."
"C'mon," Brian said, drying his hands on a towel. "You can help me close the bar. And by 'close', I of course mean 'drink everything'."
***
"And then, after Rachel had Emma, Chandler and I started trying for a baby," Monica said unsteadily, sliding a little lower on her barstool. "It's been two years and nothing. Nothing."
"Wow," Brian sighed, pouring a little more Scotch in her glass. "That happened to some friends of mine. Have you guys seen a doctor?"
"Not yet," Monica said. "Chandler thought we should, but... that's not the way I want it to happen, you know? Bunch of doctors, Chandler jerking off in a little room, me getting hauled around and shot in the butt. My friend Phoebe went through it, she said it was awful."
"It's just not fair," she continued. "Ross and Rachel got horny and drunk and -bam!- they have this beautiful little girl they didn't even *want*. Me, I want kids more than anything, and it's just not happening."
"We're doing everything right, too," she moaned. "Chandler's wearing boxers and pants two sizes too big for him, I'm taking folic acid, we're not having sex except on the days I'm ovulating..."
"Damn, that must suck. Sex once a month? I'd go insane."
Monica laughed bitterly. "Oh, believe me, I'm lucky to get it then. Not that it's exactly a great experience."
Brian took a sip of his drink. "Whaddya mean?"
"It's not like sex. It's like... *breeding*. I announce that I'm ovulating, and it's wham, bam, operation performed, ma'am."
"Wow... I... don't know what to say."
"It'd almost be okay, you know, if anything else was the same. But he used to be so affectionate, you know? Kissed me all the time, sat with his arm around me, held my hand, snuggled up to me. But he doesn't even sleep next to me at night. So it's not just that I'm horny, you know, or lonely, which oh god, I so am, but it's like... I'm starved for touch. Like those babies i-in the orphanages on CNN."
She touched her eyes with her sleeve again. "It's so stupid, I... I find myself *picking* on people, you know? Trying to start tickle fights and stuff. I got into this wrestling match with my friend Joey last week, for about five minutes, and it was... it was the nicest thing that's happened to me all month, just to be close to someone. It's like I'm... it's like I'm cold all the time."
Brian looked uncomfortable. "Why don't you tell your husband this stuff?"
"Because he doesn't *listen* to me. Ever. I'm an annoyance, I'm an interruption, when I do get him to talk to me, he's all defensive. Y'know, Brian, I swear to god, whenever I talk, he hears it like the adults on 'Charlie Brown', y'know, 'wha wha-wha wha, wha wha-wha-wha, wha'. I can't compete with his stupid book... I'm just not as interesting to him."
"Oh, Monica, that can't be true," Brian said kindly. "You're *very* interesting, and totally gorgeous, and so..."
Monica cut him off with a kiss. Brian responded for a brief moment before pulling back.
"Hey, um, huh," Brian stuttered, touching her face. "Um, look... you're really nice, and I-I do kinda have a crush on you, I guess you must know that... if you weren't married I'd be all over you... but you *are* married."
"Oh, god," Monica cried out in humiliation, burying her head in her arms.
"Hey, look, um..." Brian said. "Have you thought about writing him a letter?"
"I *live* with him!"
"I know, but hear me out. You know, you start talking to someone, they start getting defensive, the whole conversation veers off somewhere you didn't want it to go, and you never get to say what you wanted to say. And sometimes, if you could have gotten them to listen to *everything* you had to say, they wouldn't be mad."
"That makes sense," Monica sniffed.
"Just write him a letter and tell him everything you told me, okay?"
***
"Hey, reclusive author Chandler Bing," Rachel called, sticking her head in the guest room. "Where the hell's your wife?"
"I think she's working late," Chandler said, tapping away at the keys.
"Damn, Chandler, this room's as messy as when I lived here," Rachel grinned, letting herself in and sitting on the bed. "You almost done with the book?"
"Mostly. I'm done with the story. I just have to go back and edit some stuff, or Monica will kill me."
"Whaddya mean?"
"Well, when the story started, there was this character based on Monica, who was going to be the love interest."
"Uh-huh..."
"But as I kept writing, it was like, *pathetically* obvious who the killer was. Not a very good mystery, right? So I decided hey, I'll make the *real* killer the person I've set up to be the sweet love interest, that will surprise everyone."
"Nice," Rachel nodded.
"So now I'm just going back and changing a lot of details about the love interest character, so she's not so much like Monica in the beginning. Can you imagine the ass-kicking I'd get if Monica thought I'd made her a serial killer in my book?"
"I'm seeing your gravestone in my mind," Rachel laughed.
"So yeah, I'm just changing that stuff, and then I'll print it out and get you guys to read it."
"Hey, Chandler...? Look, it's none of my business, but... didn't you and Monica have a pretty big fight yesterday?"
"Yeah," he admitted. "I don't really know what happened. She was in here, sitting where you were, kinda babbling about tomatoes, and all of a sudden she was yelling at me."
"Look, Chandler. Don't take this the wrong way, but... I realize that writing is new and fun for you, but I think you have to set some limits for yourself."
"Huh?"
"Okay. Remember when the night chef quit at Allesandro's, and Monica worked doubles for two weeks? Remember how lonely you got, how much you missed her?"
"Oh god," Chandler said in sudden realization.
"And this hasn't been two weeks, Chandler. It's been months and months. She never sees you, we never see you, you never go out anymore. I know how much I miss you, and how much Joey misses you... god, I can't even imagine how much Monica misses you."
"Just think about this," Rachel continued. "Imagine how much more supportive Monica would be of your writing if you did it, say, eight to ten hours a day, mostly while she was at work. At night, you could go out, hang out with her, sleep while she was sleeping... hey, call it research. How are you gonna base all your characters on your real life if you *have* no life, huh?"
"Oh my god, Rach -- I'm a moron. I'm a big fat moron," Chandler said in horror.
"So don't be one," Rachel smiled, standing up and kissing him on the cheek. "Why don't you clean up a little, maybe get some flowers, meet Monica when she gets home?"
"I could get takeout -- do a candlelight dinner thing."
"Good, good. This is all good, honey. I gotta go put Emma to bed, but I'll see you around this week -- right?"
"Right," Chandler smiled.
***
Monica let herself in the door, a little unsteadily. Chandler must be over at Joey's... the apartment was quiet, not a tap-tap-tap to be heard.
She walked quietly to the guest room and let herself inside. Chandler's computer was still on. She sat down and peered at the screen.
"My Computer"... "My Documents"... aha. "Microsoft Word".
She clicked twice, and a blank page appeared on the screen.
"Dear Chandler," she typed, and a little paper clip appeared on the side of the screen.
"It looks like you're writing a letter," it said, and asked if she wanted any help.
Argh, stupid computers. She continued typing, hunting and pecking for the keys with two fingers. "I really wish you'd spend more time with me, ever since you started working on your books, I feel like I never get to see you."
She hit the space bar, and suddenly, a green squiggly line appeared underneath her words. What the hell? She didn't want them underlined in green squiggly. How did she get that off?
She hunted for something to get the green squiggly line off and only succeeded in making her letters huge and slanty. "Stupid computer. I hate you", she typed, and laughed to herself. Like she could hurt the computer's feelings. She clicked on the green squiggly line, and the whole thing turned black.
Dammit, dammit, dammit. She tried typing again, and the first two lines disappeared.
Argh!!
She moved the little bar thingey to the beginning, and a box popped up in front of everything, asking her if she'd like to save her document.
She hit "yes", and it wanted her to name it. L-E-T-T-E-R, she typed carefully, and it popped up another damned box.
See, this was why God had meant for people to use a freaking pen and a sheet of paper. What had she been thinking?
She hit "enter" until all the boxes went away, hit the X on Microsoft Word, and pushed herself away from the computer with a groan.
She'd write Chandler a real letter, on paper, tomorrow. She was going to bed.
***
Chandler shoved the bouquet underneath the arm holding the Thai food sack and brought out his keys, letting himself into the apartment.
Monica wasn't in the main room. He set down the food and the flowers and walked towards the bedroom, pushing the door open quietly.
Monica was crashed out, snoring softly, sprawled across the bed. He smiled to himself. She was really, really, cute when she snored.
He bit his lip, deciding. If he woke her up now, she'd probably be grumpy, and his whole 'candlelit dinner' thing wouldn't go too well. Or, he could put the food in the fridge, finish his editing tonight, and be able to spend all the time with her he wanted tomorrow.
That was a better idea, yeah.
He stuffed the cartons in the fridge, put the flowers in some water, and walked towards his study, sliding into his computer chair.
He double-clicked on the icon for his book, turning around in his chair to grab some pages of research from the bed.
He turned back, and his jaw dropped.
He must have opened the wrong file. This one said nothing but "I hate you" in huge italic letters.
His eyes flew to the title bar. This *was* "letter.doc". Maybe he'd opened a file with the right name in the wrong folder?
No, no, this was "letter.doc" in "My Documents". This *was* his book file.
He changed the view settings, looked at the Last Modified date. Oh my god. It was tonight, while he was out getting the food.
Monica had erased his book.
*Monica* had erased his *book*.
Shit. Shit. Shit. When was the last time he'd backed his computer up? He grabbed a stack of CD's and read his own handwriting with horror.
March.
He'd last backed up in March.
He'd been on Chapter One in March.
He turned back to the screen, where "I hate you" continued to glow in enormous letters.
Oh my god. Oh my god. How could she do this? Why would she do this?
How the hell was he going to face her tomorrow? Hi, sweetie, did you have a nice night destroying my life's work because you thought I spent too much time on it?
No, no, that wasn't it at all, was it?
Monica hated the book because she couldn't control it, couldn't control him when he was writing it. Ever since they'd started dating, he'd been totally whipped by her. Now he wasn't, and she couldn't stand it. This was his *punishment* for crossing her.
He couldn't be here when she woke up. He was too angry, too hurt, he would say things he'd regret, might do even worse things.
He turned back to the screen, erased the "I hate you" with a pang through his heart, and began to type.
***
Monica stumbled out of the bedroom, hungover and confused. No Chandler in bed. No tap-tap-tap-tap. Had he slept at Joey's?
Her heart leaped when she saw a vase of roses on the kitchen table, with a printed note stuck underneath. He'd brought her flowers! He hadn't done that in ages!
She nearly skipped over to the table, and pulled the note out from underneath the vase.
She read the first few lines, and dropped into a kitchen chair, knees giving out from underneath her.
"Dear Monica," the note began.
"I know what you did, and I don't know what to say. I just can't look at you right now. The thing that just kills me is that I was trying to make up with you last night... I guess you're probably looking at the flowers I was bringing to you. I know you've been feeling neglected -- Rachel can fill you in on the conversation we had -- but this, this was not the way to express your anger, okay? I'm... anyway, there's no point in talking more, I'm too angry right now."
"I'm going away for a while. I'll be back as soon as my brain works again."
"I still love you."
"Chandler."
Monica let the note fall from her hand. Dear God. He'd seen her kissing Brian. He must have come down to the restaurant when she hadn't come home.
With flowers. He'd come down with flowers. And he'd been standing there, looking through the window, seeing...
Oh my god.
-------------------
To be continued...