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Patrick Bateman is sweet on me. I know, I know. He’s not my usual type, believe me. He’s conceited, shallow. Psycho, I guess. I’m not his usual type either. He’s all “hardbodies” and “great looking – blonde, big tits,” and my tits aren’t all that big. But he’s sweet on me all the same. He’s brought Cristal, and when he sees I have champagne glasses out already (Waterford, from my mother) he is angry with himself for being predictable. I act bored with the Cristal but truthfully the most expensive champagne I’ve had here-to-fore is Asti Spumante and that isn’t even champagne, just sparkling wine. I have J&B for him, of course, even though everyone knows Glenfiddich is better. The glass is Baccarat. It’s the only one like it I have. I ask him how was the concert, knowing he didn’t want to go (he hates live music) and he monologues at length about what everyone was wearing, a litany of late 1980s designers some of whom no longer even exist. He’s in a panic about not having reservations but I hand him my cell phone (of which he is quite jealous though he won’t say) and have him make (thoroughly unnecessary) reservations at the new Japanese place. “Not hibachi,” he warns me. “Obviously,” I say. He is ostentatious, making the reservations. You don’t have to talk to people like that, not on this side of the river, in Illinois.
Last month it was Dickens’ Sydney Carton. Poor Sydney, I took him back over and over, knowing how it would end, no matter how many alternatives there may have been. Finally such self-sacrifice was too much to endure.
Briefly, it was Scarlett O’Hara, and no one could have been more surprised than I. No wonder she did so poorly with men.
My first was Prince Caspian. He’d show up, out of the blue, try earnestly to engage my parrot in conversation and then give up, complaining the bird was making fun of him. It was hard to go in public with him, as he never could tell the difference between a Talking Animal and a regular one. Hint: There are no Talking Animals in America. He was kind, though, and brave and annoyingly chivalrous. When I told him it was over, I found myself walking into doors I was so accustomed to having someone open them for me.
And now here I am with Patrick Bateman in my house. He’s amazed by the technology I casually use. I won’t tell him about selfies or Facebook and surely not about XXXclusive. I keep it mysterious. He thinks I’m a spy. I don’t know how long this will last.
About Epiphany Ferrell
Epiphany Ferrell lives perilously close to the Shawnee Hills Wine Trail in Southern Illinois. Her stories appear in Best Microfiction 2020, New Flash Fiction Review, Ghost Parachute, Dream Noir, and other places. She is a two-time Pushcart nominee, and the 2020 Prime Number Magazine Flash Fiction Prize recipient. She enjoys live music, kayaking, hiking – and planning for when she’ll have horses again.
