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Maureen isn't supposed to be the jealous one. Maureen is vibrant, electric, magnetic. The world comes to Maureen on its knees, and she accepts it with the open arms of a saint. There is no man too poor, no woman too fragile, no creature too insane for Maureen Johnson. This is her charm.
Everyone bows before Maureen Johnson.
Everyone except, it turns out, Joanne.
I.
It's not that she's jealous. Jealousy implies actually caring about a situation, and she doesn't. Care. Exactly. Because Joanne is not her girlfriend.
It's just that it's fucking weird, okay?
Joanne is always so tightly-strung, all wound up and buttoned down, and Maureen likes this about her. Loves it, really, as much as it will drive her dogshit on their worst days. Joanne is impeccable. Not a hair out of place, not a shred of lint on her neat little lawyer slacks. Joanne is--
Apparently, tonight, a little bit drunk.
And Maureen isn't jealous. Because jealousy only comes when you aren't in control of a situation. Because jealousy is only a thing a person has to worry about when they are uncertain. When they do not feel secure. Maureen Johnson? Maureen is the picture of security.
It's just that she hasn't exactly seen Joanne like this before.
Joanne is doing this weird thing--three weeks into their relationship, if that's what you can call this awkwardly hot, awkwardly unexpected affair--where she knocks back shots of tequila and then starts chatting up their waitress. It's weird because it's Joanne. It's weird because it's tequila. And it's weird because, yes, Maureen knows Alice the Waitress very well--has flirted with her a couple of times on her own, in fact--and that makes this whole picture her territory.
Except she guesses Joanne maybe noticed the last time it happened. Maybe. Because Joanne isn't being all impeccable and neat and the precise opposite of everything Maureen has come in three weeks to expect of her. Joanne isn't holding her head aloft and smiling with her mouth instead of her eyes. Joanne isn't--
Joanne isn't holding her hand beneath the table.
Maybe that's the thing that does it, that really drives her over the edge. Because Maureen Johnson doesn't get jealous, but damn it--it is not okay to go out with Maureen Johnson, and laugh with waitresses named Alice, and not hold her hand beneath the table. It's just not.
It's a lesson Joanne learns in the fourth stall of the bathroom not fifteen minutes later. Loudly. Vividly.
You do not ignore Maureen Johnson.
II.
It's not that she's jealous. Jealousy implies a wandering eye, and a failure to assess the situation to your advantage, and the insane idea that Maureen is somehow not the hottest, most memorable person in any room. She isn't jealous. Jealousy is stupid.
It's just that she's never dated a girl before.
Which doesn't matter, because whatever, girls and boys are all the same. Everybody's got their junk, as they say (ain't that right, Roger, old buddy, ain't that right, Benjamin Coffin III, ain't that right, everyone who couldn't get enough of something that was bound to unbind them in the end?). There's no difference. Mark, Joanne; they're wrapped around her little finger. Kind of at the same time.
She isn't jealous.
It's just that Joanne kind of hasn't committed to her.
Which isn't a thing she wants, no shit. Commitment when she's already juggling two relationships? Terrible idea. Horseshit. She's watching Roger lose his fucking mind over that blow, and that whole April thing, and she's watching Collins run for the hills to escape it all, and she's watching Marky get as stoic as Marky is able to get, because Mark seems to thing he needs to be the strong one in that apartment, and--Joanne? Joanne is a fantasy. Joanne is a good book, a great drink, a performance so electric, it spins her head clean off her shoulders and takes her to the moon and back.
Joanne doesn't have to commit to her, because Maureen damn sure doesn't have it in her to do the same.
Still--doesn't she want to?
Joanne is commitment in a nutshell. Joanne is neat little pencil lines, spreadsheets with all the numbers filled in careful rows. Joanne is calculation, and planning, and schedules gone over with an eagle-eyed obsession for detail. Joanne is commitment.
And Joanne hasn't asked her. Hasn't called in almost a week. Hasn't pressed her for coffee, or dinner, or a quick fuck before Maureen's next show. Joanne hasn't bothered at all.
That's fine, you know, because whatever--but if Joanne thinks she's going to come crawling? That's so beyond the pale. Joanne should know better.
If Maureen is standing in her doorway at two in the morning, hands in her back pockets, easing her way inside, it isn't about wanting to be on Joanne's mind at every second of every day. That's stupid. That's insane. It's just a principle thing.
You do not forget Maureen Johnson.
III.
It's not that she's jealous. Jealousy implies self-consciousness, an awareness that maybe you aren't all that you've ever wanted for yourself. Maureen is everything. Maureen is fucking perfect, okay?
It's just that this name has spilled off of Joanne's lips, and it isn't her name, and she's pretty naked right now. And that's sort of totally insulting.
And hey--wouldn't it be, no matter who it was?
Joanne doesn't even seem to realize she's done it, which is possibly the most cataclysmic part of the whole thing. Joanne doesn't seem to realize she's just groaned out some other bitch's name in the middle of sex--and yeah, hey, it's mind-blowing. The sex. And the fact that Joanne is just off in the middle of it, off to her own little lesbian lawyer land. Mind-fucking-blown.
Maureen doesn't put up with shit like this.
Part of it (a tiny part, an itty-bitty, you'll never catch me alive, copper sort of detail; she's barely noticed it, really) is the fact that she's just left Mark for this woman. Just--just left him. Up and for good, pack your bags, come storming through this relatively new apartment door with all the clothes and hair products and posters she owns in the world kind of left. There's no going back. This is all there is now, just her and Joanne.
And Joanne is just...just going about groaning other people's names in the middle of sex. Sex! With Maureen Johnson!
There are at least sixteen people in this city who would sell a hand for the kind of sex Joanne is getting right now. Stump people. It's worth it.
She isn't jealous. It's not a matter of jealousy, when she kisses harder, and lets her tongue rove fitful paths, and digs her nails violently into Joanne's scalp. It's not jealousy, urging her to bite down on nipples, and hipbones, and the soft pad of skin where Joanne's shoulder and neck marry together. It's nothing to do with jealousy, how sharply she twists her fingers when Joanne arches up into her hand.
Joanne has let her mind wander. That's just rude, is all it is.
She pumps her fingers, and grinds her hips ruthlessly against Joanne's thigh, and thinks, Yeah, you just try it, you just try to forget who's in your bed tonight. Just try it, honey, and I'll show you. You'll never remember another name again, after this.
It's not about jealousy. It's about rising to the challenge.
You do not wander from Maureen Johnson.
IV.
It's not that she's jealous. Jealousy implies an unfocused state of affairs. Like this whole thing is too big for her. Like it's too much to handle. Nothing is too much for Maureen. Go big or go home; it's the mantra she uses in her wardrobe, in her hair maintenance, in the scope of her shows. She's got this.
It's just that this friendship thing is getting bigger than she realized it would.
Mark, yeah, okay, Mark does this. She didn't expect he'd do it with her girlfriend--the one she was cheating on him with? Yeah, that's the one, sweetie-pie--but okay. It's Mark's way. He makes friends wherever he goes, waving that silly camera around, being all pale and blond and well-meaning. She guesses it's all right, that they're friends.
But the others?
Roger is the biggest surprise. Angel is new, and Mimi is young, and both are so full of this potent blend of charisma and blind love that it almost makes sense, that they'd infect Joanne and her ideological cheer. Collins is sweet, and Mark is Mark, and hell, she thinks Joanne would even get along with Benny, if given the right opportunity for it. Joanne's got that thinker's mind, that logical, idiot-resistant approach to the color-spattered lifestyle they all lead. They'd all make sense, in their own gross, multihued mess of a way.
But Roger is weird.
Fucking weird.
And it isn't jealousy. Because Joanne hasn't ever once been interested in men, and if she were, Maureen is pretty confident she could take Roger, anyway. She's a hell of a lot prettier, for one; she has a hell of a lot more T-cells, for another. Roger's got that jumpy junkie quality to him, that sketchy vibe you never quite lose, like the track marks beneath his jacket sleeves. Roger's all quiet rage and barely contained apathy for the world around him, and even his adorable little girlfriend and her no day but today bullshit can't fend off the darkness. Roger is a mess.
And, for whatever reason, Joanne is getting on famously with Sir Whines-A-Lot.
She loves Roger, of course; she loves Roger the way you love the brother who has smacked your boyfriend around, and hurled chunks all over your best shoes, and stolen grocery money to fend off the monkey on his back. But when Joanne stands too near Roger, when Joanne's in her pristine little blazer and tie, and Roger is all haircut, stat and beaten-down posture, and the two of them are laughing like this, it's just...
She loves Roger, but she loves Joanne more. And Roger, for all his beautiful voice and beautiful search for glory and beautiful attempts to atone for too many sins, is infectious.
This isn't too big to handle, this part where Joanne is expanding into territories Maureen herself only learned to properly navigate a few months ago. And it's not about jealousy, when Joanne drops her head and mutters something about confidentiality after a long, quiet conversation in Roger's corner of the room. Of course not.
You do not keep secrets from Maureen Johnson.
V.
It's not that she's jealous. Jealousy implies a make-or-break, do-or-die, I need you more than life itself dealio. Maureen doesn't swing that way. People die without Maureen. Maureen can keep ticking until the end of the universe itself.
Even if it's alone.
So, yeah, Joanne maybe hasn't spoken to her in a few months. And okay, maybe it's bizarre, sleeping alone again--feeling alone, even with another body warming the sheets--and waking up without the smell of coffee and toothpaste and those stupid candles Joanne always manages to stock the apartment with. Maybe it's kind of gross-feeling, the way her mind stumbles and staggers over itself whenever she notices something of theirs when she isn't expecting it. Maybe.
But this feeling in her gut when she bumps into Joanne at the coffee shop or the bar, that's not jealousy. It isn't jealousy when her skin sings at the barest contact. It isn't jealousy when her vision sears red at the sight of Joanne touching Alice the Waitress' hand for just a second too long as she pays her bill. Not jealousy. Jealousy implies failure.
Maureen Johnson doesn't fail.
Yeah, so they're broken up. Today. Doesn't mean anything, does it? They break up all the time. They fight, and they split, and then they're rucking in the living room like a couple of teenagers fresh out of their parents' house. It's the way they work, the way they have always worked, and Maureen just figures that's it. No harm, no foul. The thread will untangle itself, as it always does, and they'll go back to the way they were.
It's a faith thing, really. She doesn't have a lot of that--not the way Angel and Mimi always have, even up to the dirtiest, dingiest moments--but there are a few things she knows for sure. Maureen is hot. Maureen is capable. Maureen is the full fucking package. And Joanne?
Joanne needs her.
Joanne craves her.
Joanne loves her.
That's what it's about, in the end. Not jealousy. Not women in rubber, or ex-junkies getting too close, or names accidentally spun out in moments of ecstasy. In the end, it's about the love thing. Maureen isn't jealous. It isn't about jealousy.
And sure, okay, maybe she feels a little ill at the funeral, when Joanne hardly meets her eyes. Maybe that's the source of that tiny pulsing ache in her belly. Maybe. But it isn't jealousy.
Joanne just doesn't get it yet, is all. That this doesn't go away. That this isn't like everything else. Joanne just hasn't figured it out, the way Maureen has. The way Maureen was always going to.
It isn't about jealousy. It isn't about needing Joanne to line the space of her life, where no one else will do. It isn't about that at all.
You do not stop loving Maureen Johnson.
That's all there is to it.