Grace Valaskovic
Marjorie Ruben sat with her hands locked firmly in her lap, oscillating her weight from side to side. So tightly and unforgiving were her fingers grasping at each other that she began to lose blood flow; first the tips of her fingers turned purple, then the color spread until it reached the knuckle and she might’ve just as well caught a nasty case of frostbite.
“Marjorie Ruben?” A handsome receptionist looked up from his telephone to where Marjorie was sitting in the waiting area. “He’s ready for you.”
Marjorie could only nod stiffly, and it took all of her strength to force herself down the hall, one foot in front of the other, until at last she reached a plain white door with a placard that read:
KEN JONES, ESQ
The door was slightly ajar, and when he noticed Marjorie’s shadow lurking Mr. Jones jumped right up to open it further.
“Ms. Ruben, how are we doing today?” He greeted her as if he was talking to a child.
“Oh, you know…” she said, trailing off to avoid any specifics. Obviously she was not well, otherwise she wouldn’t have been there at all.
“Right, well, of course. I understand. Please, sit.” Mr. Jones gestured to the interior of his office, which was outfitted with two chairs and a desk between them. There was little else in the room, save piles and piles of papers strewn across the desk and floor; they looked more like set dressing than documents that had been actually sifted through and discarded.
As Marjorie sat in one of his apathetic chairs, Mr. Jones paced back and forth behind her.
“So, just so I have it in your own words, why are we here today?”
Marjorie did not say anything.
“Ms. Ruben, I pride myself on having personal relationships with my clients. If we can build a rapport now— if the court sees you as friendly, then you’re much likelier to end up with a larger settlement. So it’s essential that I understand your perspective.”
“My husband has a second family, Mr. Jones, what more is there to say? I couldn’t birth him a child so he found a woman who was able to. I wish to be divorced from him immediately.”
That quieted Mr. Jones for a second, perhaps giving him a moment to reflect on his bedside manner, or perhaps allowing him to stew about how Marjorie had rebuffed his recommendation. Seeming to have picked empathy, he extended his hand to rest on Marjorie’s shoulder, inadvertently exposing a large damp circle on the underarm of his shirt.
The warm weight of his hand would have been comforting if not for the odor wafting from his body in great waves. Though she tried very much not to move, Marjorie must have recoiled, as Mr. Jones instantly withdrew his hand.
“I’m sorry,” he said stupidly, “my antiperspirant just doesn’t get the job done. Do you…I feel silly asking this, but do you have any suggestions for products I might try?”
“Oh!,” exclaimed Marjorie, shocked at the request. “My hus— my ex-husband uses Natural Valley X-tra Fresh.”
“Does it work?”
“I-, certainly! Kristen, a verified purchaser, says that her- well, her husband works a labor intensive job and that Natural Valley X-tra Fresh works, quote, awesome for him. So you don’t just need to take my word for it.”
“That sounds excellent,” Mr. Jones sighed, “if only I could sample some right now. I’m worried I’ve been driving away clients left and right because of my terrible smell.”
“Then you’re in luck!” Out of her small purse, Marjorie drew a travel size (for your convenience) version of Natural Valley X-tra Fresh Antiperspirant. “I always carry one with me in case of emergencies.”
“Oh, thank you endlessly,” Mr. Jones cried, stripping down to his undershirt for better access. Soon enough he was sweat-free and smelling delightful. “I must ask though,” he said, his face cast to the ceiling as if speaking to God (or whatever sick copywriter had created him), “does it ever get tiring?”
“Does what ever get tiring, Mr. Jones?”
“Dreaming of being a great novelist, writing world renowned dramas, being convinced you’re a genuine talent, only to be relegated to scripting out deodorant ads your boss will likely tweak until they are nothing but an unrecognizable clump of words— does that ever get tiring?”
“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
“Oh sure you do. Or shall we still pretend that you’ve actually just discovered that your husband’s a cheat? That consumers care about the two of us? That we’re real, even to each other?” Mr. Jones poked himself in the belly, and found that his finger passed right through.
“Come to think of it, I have been rather disillusioned lately,” Marjorie said. She tried to stand up, but could not. “Every day, I have less and less energy. I wonder when it will end, when the day will come that I cannot move myself out of bed and I just lay there until I wither away.”
She fell unceremoniously to the floor with a thump. Mr. Jones sank to his knees. It was as if the two were a pair of maple trees in autumn, being drained of their sap. Slowly, their energy whittled away and away until they could no longer move at all, their heads melting into the inexpensive carpet of Mr. Jones’ office.
Their heartbeats lost tempo, slowing and slowing and sl
Grace Valaskovic (she/her) is a member of NU’s class of ’25! She studies Theatre and Creative Writing, with concentrations in playwriting, fiction writing, and musical theatre writing. She enjoys button up shirts, spaghetti, and spending time in her hometown of Cambridge, Massachusetts.
