No One's Wife
It's more about pain than anything else.
Roxie's fingers are inside you, always one too many, pumping. Her voice is soft, in contrast, and silky, "I still hate your fucking guts, you know" in a slow caramel whisper.
"Another. Business. Doesn't." You struggle to keep your voice even, "matter."
You're careful to only leave bruises where they'll be covered by your costumes. To bite only in the small spaces where fabric will hide the teeth marks. Roxie's mouth closes around your nipple, snaps shut. You bleed, which is how you like it.
It all started somewhere between the guns and the cameras and the applause. Short blasts of sound, and the power of forward momentum. It all began, Roxie would say, with your torn stockings. But Roxie was never the most perceptive of women, and you will always know better.
It started with the clank of the cell doors. With the snap of the Hungarian's neck, with yet another missed opportunity. With the flash of a hundred cameras, all focused on the two of you.
It was always more about pain than anything else.
When Roxie tells the story, it inevitable begins "I decided to go with you when I saw the rip in your stockings." Which is her way of saying "when I saw your desperation, when I recognized myself in you." You largely ignore her side of the tale, as you know it to be as much of a lie as that whole pregnancy thing. A bit in her act.
Because she plays more characters than a goddamn actress; the only difference is that, after a while, she begins to believe her own lies. Give her long enough, and she'll probably begin to believe in this. In fingers and lips and jazz, in your one room apartment with a john.
Your story, on the other hand, starts with a starstruck girl handing you your undergarments in a prison hallway. With those dewey eyes and that bad hairdo and that earnest look. And you fell for it, hook line and sinker, you looked into those eyes and saw a sap.
So, yes, it started with a prison cell and some freshly washed stockings. It started with hatred and a lie. With Mama's whiskey and Billy's showmanship and the hangman always at the door.
And the first time, the audience was still on its feet, cheering for more. The lights were still flashing and the music pounded under your skin. The wall scraped the skin from your back. Two encores later, and you had her squirming beneath you on the floor of your dressing room. Had her moaning and squealing and panting.
And she, well, she knew where you like to be hurt.
Her fingernails breaking your skin; her teeth cutting into your flesh. Her anger, focused on your breasts, on your neck. Her voice getting softer and huskier as she pushed her fingers inside you.
She knew exactly how hard you like it.
And, as the venues get smaller and dingier, Roxie's fingers thrust harder and deeper. From music hall to dance hall to a small speakeasy forty miles outside Chicago, you perform like you're still on trial. Until, finally, you're billed below "Max and Sam: The World's Sixth Fattest Siamese Twins" with a paycheck that barely covers your liquor tab. Her teeth cut into the flesh at your hip, and you bite down on your hand to keep from screaming out.
The dressing table creaks.
And, when the club manager calls for you, Roxie just laughs and slams you against the mirror; your nails dig into her thigh as she grabs your costumes. You lick her fingers clean and run for the stage.
The show must go on, no matter how fucking pathetic.
She still wears her desperation like a flea-ridden mutt, but you've learned to ignore it most of the time. You're better than her, and that's something you're willing to live with. She's a fucking twat, but, then again, who isn't?
You need her more than you should, but you're not about to tell her that.
The first time, you barely made it off stage before she pushed you against the wall. The cameras still snapping and the applause just starting to trickle down, she slammed you against the concrete and kissed you so hard it bled.
The flashes still exploding behind your eyes.