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“How do you mean that?”
“Like, like she’s studyin’ ya. Like ya was a play or a book or a set of blueprints. How you walk, talk, eat, think, sleep—“
“I’m sure that’s very flattering, Birdie. I’m sure there’s nothing wrong with it.”
Love could be expressed in many ways. It could be admiring someone from across the room as she powdered her face at the vanity, catching your reflection in the mirror as you came up behind her. It could be watching her night after night, her gaze drifting far beyond the audience, finding her beautiful even from a distance. It could be wishing you were the one brushing powder across her soft, ageing cheeks, wishing, perhaps most of all, that you were the only person she ever performed for.
Margo Channing was beautiful. More than that, she was perfect. Her clenched hands, the prominence of her knuckles, seemed made to be kissed like the hands of royalty. Her tired, drooping eyelids were made to close while someone massaged the ache from her shoulders. Even the lines across her forehead, the furrow between her eyebrows, the tension in her arms; all of it was worthy of cherishing.
Margo was so perfect that even her imperfections could be forgiven.
Beyond her appearance, beyond her temperament, beyond her performances, Margo’s very name carried the weight of the world. At least, it carried the weight of Eve’s.
She studied the other woman as she slipped her stockings down her delicate, pale thighs. She studied the way Margo crossed her arms, the way she tucked her hands into her pockets when she did not want to seem petulant, which never quite worked as she intended. She studied her eyes: the flutter of her dark lashes, the way they softened after a dry martini, the dilation of her pupils when something pleased her. She studied her voice: the way its pitch rose when she lifted her chin, how everything around her seemed to go still when she spoke to Bill in a quiet, sultry tone. She studied her empathy: the gentle palm running down Karen’s back, the little pout when Lloyd told her he had missed the train, the rare occasions when she and Birdie swatted at each other’s arms while laughing, the pitiful looks she gave Eve herself.
A book was less interesting than Margo. Even a play could be performed a thousand times, the lighting flawless, the costumes intricate, the script immaculate, and still it would never compare to her. The only blueprints Eve understood were Margo’s. The architecture of her body, the map of her curves, all of the places that made a person imagine burying themselves inside forever.
She had been an outsider for so long that finally relishing her true form felt almost like being buried in gold. Hearing Margo’s private thoughts, witnessing her wonder, discovering the deep-rooted passion she had for life—it only made Eve’s insatiable curiosity more consuming.
Margo’s careless graze of her forearm, her wine-red nails trailing lightly across her skin, meant more to Eve than anything else could.
Every star in the galaxy could be laid at Margo’s feet, and it would still look like sand beside the love Eve harboured for her. The sky was vast, full of possibility, but there was only one destination worth travelling eternity for: Margo.
For every downfall, Eve would be Margo’s resurrection. Whatever time withered from Margo would wither from Eve, too. And no matter how many years passed, she would remain.
She would always be there.
Every performance, every day, every hour, every possible minute, Eve would be there.
In the morning, she would arrive with fresh coffee, prepared exactly as Margo liked it. In the afternoon, her feet would carry her where she knew Margo had gone. In the evening, she would stand backstage, ready to be whatever Margo required of her. And in the late hours, when everyone else had fallen asleep, she would be her entertainment, her dreams, the thought that put her to rest.
In every season, she would be there. In the cold, she would be Margo’s warmth. In the heat, her shade. In every corner of life, through every mundane hour and every moment of tranquillity, Eve would give everything she had.
Each desperate swallow, each attempt to stomach all the love she carried for Margo, left an acidic taste on her tongue. What a strange drink, to be so fond of it despite the bitterness. What a peculiar concoction to gulp down willingly, knowing it would burn all the way down, internally ruining her.
And for all the resentment she felt, it was never truly Margo herself she resented. It was the hairbrush running through her lovely, thick auburn hair. It was the man she went home to, the life she woke up to each morning. Eve wanted all of it.
She wanted Margo.
Margo. Margo. Margo.
How many times could she shout her name before the name became hers?
How many hours of devotion, of patience, of endurance, would it take?
How many days could Eve spend longing for something that was never meant to belong to her?
She wanted nothing more than to be made whole, not by remaining a witness to Margo’s life, forever watching from the periphery as everything she desired passed before her, but by being witnessed herself.
Being seen by her.
Being chosen.