Her mind wouldn’t stop, and it was a beautifully awful thing. What led to her success, a pendulum of anxious paranoia to avoid the opposite—a type of irony lost on most of the weak-minded public; the folly of man, she called it. It was a cross to bear despite the privilege. Even in her best eves she would contemplate the next step on an endless case—if not just tipping over the railing itself. She found no solace in the presence of others—no matter how sincere or genuine; avoided people like the very plagues she found so interesting. She craved to be liked and by contrast feared doing likeable things. A Catch-22 fit for Fitzgerald, fighting to achieve everything he ever wanted, only to die with his likeness enraptured by failure. This—she supposed—was her destiny.
His mind was the calming waters of crater lake. The most beautiful of sights disrupted by a single contemptuous thing—his whimsical wife with expectations that far exceeded his god’s. He deserved the world and it wasn’t lost on her. Even in her fits of rage or besweetened bitterness, he opened his arms, and it was evident in those moments that he didn’t understand. But how beautiful this man for pretending, she thought. And so, she knew. Every morning that she suffered the misfortune to wake, and every evening she happily closed her eyes, she knew—that he was the only immortal flame that cradled her heart into the next. No one else could fight the demons of her soul with such sound grace, and she knew. Should their lives be damned, it was only a matter of time. Dimwitted and asinine in social affairs though she was; for as puffed as her chest grew at her contempt for the rest—she knew. Without him, she was nothing.
It was all a grand ruse. A mountain of success that could fall at the slightest whisper of tragedy and she begged to God above. Please don’t take him from me, or surely I shall follow.
And in her prayer—she knew.