Meyer’s Teeth: Part II

Don’t you shake your head at me, Martha Stewart, Meyer thinks to himself. He is scowling, but hardly does he realize it. Martha Stewart of course does however. She is facing him. She speaks, she says: “What’s the big deal, I mean really?” She she asks him. Meyer throws up his eyebrows and he keeps them there. He turns back to his work. He speaks, he says: “It is a big deal, Matha. For it to have come from you, it is sort of a big deal,” he tells her. He says this to change the subject. Martha Stewart is not impressed. She mumbles and returns to her work. “What was that?” Meyer asks her. “Nothing,” she tells him. There is a silence, and it lingers. Until Martha Stewart speaks, she says: “I wouldn’t lie,” She tells him. Meyer turns his eye.

He glances at her birdhouse. He then looks back to his canister. He looks at Martha Stewart. Her eyes, he thinks seem to be pinning her own nose. She creeks her mouth, as if to speak but it closes. She shakes it off. Meyer turns back to his canister. He picks it up. He looks at the brunt, plier cut edges. He wants to say that he likes them that way, but he thinks for an alternative, and in that while, Martha Stewart turns toward him. She speaks, she says: “Look at that yellow, with that matte black it’s so perfect,” she tells him.

Meyer slams his canister. “Yeah I agree, Martha, that’s why I chose it,” he tells her. Martha Stewart responds disgusted. She turns right back to her work, “OK great,” she tells him. Meyer regrets his words, fairly immediately. He’d lost his cool, and he knew so before he spoke. And although he does feel regret, he maintains the thoughts which lead to it, and he sides with them once more. He speaks, he says: “I know my color schemes are good, do you think that I not know that,” he tells her. Martha Stewart lifts her eyebrows. Meyer speaks, he says: “Listen I know you and Christopher compliment each other left and right, but I don’t need it,” he tells her. Martha Stewart has not lowered her brows. She opens her mouth. Meyer braces. She speaks, she says: “Fuck you.”

Meyer shrugs. He nods. “Well, Ok then,” he tells her, condescendingly. And unable to help it, he goes for more. He speaks, he says: “Obviously there’s a reason we craft together. It’s because I’m good, Martha Stewart,” he tells her, with emphasis on her full name. Martha Stewart looks with a cold stare. She wants him to spill more–she doesn’t but she does, so she lets him. And Meyer does, he spills more. He speaks, he says: “Just because I’m not on tv, Martha, it doesn’t mean I can’t cut a fucking popsicle stick,” he tells her. He says this pounding-ly, which is to say his words could do it.


Martha Stewart laughs. She laughs in his face. Meyer smiles, and he nods, neither of which is genuine except maybe the nod. She speaks, she says: ”You are so insecure, you really are. I would be offended if only that weren’t so incredibly true,” she tells him. “You’re so good,” she says, and she looks to her birdhouse, “Yet so insecure,” She tells him. Meyer would smile now wider if only he could. He is nodding now rapidly. “Uh-hum,” he says. He looks at his canister. He picks it up, and he does this because he believes Martha Stewart has looked to her birdhouse with a specific reason. She hadn’t, but Meyer thinks it. He speaks, he says: “I love this fucking canister,” he tells her. He wants to tell her he does not feel inferior. “Good,” she tells him, and she adds: “It’s very nice.” Meyer squints.

Martha Stewart cannot focus on Meyer’s most recent words. She mulls them over, but she says: “If you were saying what I think you were saying, about Christopher and myself, then one fuck you, and two you’re wrong, and three, fuck you,” she tells him. Meyer is surprised. He speaks, he says: “I’m not quite sure but fuck, yeah, I was,” he tells her. And Meyer does not even know the implication of what he has just said. All that he knows is it has meant something bad. He looks into her eyes and he nods.

Martha Stewart is now enraged. She springs one step back, she shakes her head twice. She loses her words. She finds new ones. She speaks, she says: “In my own goddamn house,” she tells him. Meyer shrugs, but he nods. Martha Stewart speaks, she says: “You have a real fucking problem, you know that,” she tells him. She darts a finger at his face. Meyer handles this with no compunction. He throws his thumb at his chest, “I keep it fucking real, Martha,” he tells her.

Martha Stewart nods. She turns away from him. Meyer sees this. He is now facing her back. Martha Stewart speaks, she says: “Where did all of this come from?” She asks him. And she steps, as if to walk away. Meyer grabs the back of his neck. He doesn’t know what to say. And in truth he does not even know what to answer. Martha Stewart turns back and she faces him. He drops his hand back to his side. She speaks, she says: “Color schemes is the only thing you’re even any bit good at,” she tells him.

Martha Stewart advances. She speaks, she says: “If you were on tv–no, I mean, you wouldn’t be on tv,” she tells him. Meyer is in disbelief. She walks past him. She speaks, she says: “Do you need a saw, I’m going to the toolbox,” She tells him.

And with ready words, Meyer turns.



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