A Girl’s Best Friend by Angela Pickering

Marilyn Monroe is my roommate.

She peeks around the corner down the hall and I pretend I don’t see. She spends her time whispering happy birthday in the middle of the night.

When I get closer, it’s quiet again.

The first time I saw her was on my grandmother’s television. The grate was blowing up her dress. I didn’t understand why my grandma was crying. I remember being unable to look away.

The second time I saw her, I was waking up. A tangled mess of tubes and wire, mouth chalky like dried blood, eyes red and aching. She sat on the foot of my bed like a nurse who wouldn’t meet my gaze.

And now, she stands and scrutinizes my spice cabinet, a reminder in her charming haircut and perfect nose and plump red lips.

I felt embarrassed for only having the cheap cans of pepper and paprika. I tried to remember that she was dead, but somehow it made it worse.

Leaning gently on the counter, I looked at her. She took out jars of cinnamon and nutmeg, staring at each before sliding it away on the fake marble.

Searching for something.

“What are you looking for?” I asked, voice cracking.

She paused, unblinking. 

Then, when I thought she would answer, she returned to the spices. Searching and scrutinizing.

She pulled out a jar of marjoram, holding it in her perfectly manicured hand. Blue eyes found mine.

For some reason, I knew what she was looking for.

Angela Pickering lives in Houston, Texas, where she watches awful scary movies and makes zines.

Image courtesy of Angela Pickering