He called like he usually did, his voice sexy and deep, not hysterical, which
he can sometimes get when something’s on his mind, something I have to
ferret out , burying my muzzle in the shit of his psyche.
He said we couldn’t have dinner, that he was broke and, ‘some people have
to work,’ implying something about my life.
He said that I was fine, but, ‘a little too much’ and wondered if I wouldn’t
be happier with someone more complex, more my ‘speed.’
And I said no! No! Simplicity is my goal, what can I be? What would you
like me to be?
Marcy awakens the next morning and Felique is gone.
On the mirror, scrawled in lipstick: Farewell my raisin d’être!
Behind the message Marcy’s reflection bubbles and is slowly
replaced by the face of a hag.
“Who are you!” demands the Hag.
“I am Marcy Bloomingdale of Queens, New York.”
“No! You are Persephone, ex-wife of Hades!”
Marcy rolls her eyes, “What he want?”
“The male gods are titillated but not amused by your lesbian ways. They take revenge on you by unleashing your love’s late Mother for she cannot bear to see her daughter happy. Felique is her hostage in the Underworld.”
“By the gods,” Persephone, alias Marcy Bloomingdale of Queens, New York exclaims, “How can I retrieve her!”
The image of the Hag begins to vanish, “You must seek the mercy of Hades…You must return to the Underworld…”