You Killed Me First

by John Marrs

If you burn your neighbour’s house down, it doesn’t make your house look any better. Lou Holtz If you’re gonna be two-faced, at least make one of them pretty. Marilyn Monroe

It’s November the fifth and the explosions are fireworks. She is trapped in the middle of a burning bonfire.

‘What? Why? What did I do to you?’ The laugh is short and cuts like a blade. ‘I’ll tell you what you did. You killed me first.’

However, there’s a lot you can learn about a person you’ve never met by what they surround themselves with.

Nicu scared the hell out of me by suggesting their replacements could be asylum seekers. I mean, I’m not entirely unsympathetic to their cause – war, poverty, displacement, yada yada yada – and I know they must live somewhere. But why here, of all places? I emailed the chairman of the parish council with my concerns and he all but suggested I was being racist, which is ridiculous. I’d swap a kidney for a date with Idris Elba.

A burning firepit catches my attention. If I don’t move, I know it’ll be the only thing I focus on all afternoon.

‘It might have been a while since you had your kids, but I bet we can still get your pre-baby body back in no time.’ I cover my smile with my hand. Margot’s kids are her stepchildren.

‘They’re Crocs, Frankie.’ I’m always willing to put myself in someone else’s shoes. But not if they’re wearing rubber crimes against couture.

You don’t have to understand something to accept it. You don’t know how a rocket flies into space, but you accept that it does.’

To hell with them, I think. I’d rather be a shot of tequila than everyone’s cup of tea.