“I’m afraid of being alone,” Marcus said.
The tape flickered, jumped. Then the same living room, but different. The auburn-haired woman was crying. Her lip was split. The camera trembled.
Marcus appeared in the doorway. He was holding a six-pack of ginger beer. He smiled—that sweet, crinkly-eyed smile she had fallen for.
“That you never, ever try to leave,” she said. Her voice was steady, but her eyes were wet. Girlfriend Tapes
The first tape was dated seven years ago. She slid it into the vintage player he kept under the TV. Static hissed, then resolved into a grainy image of a living room she didn’t recognize. A young woman with auburn hair sat on a floral couch, reading a book. She looked up, smiled at the camera—at Marcus, behind it.
Lena’s hands were cold. She ejected the tape. No. This is a movie. He makes short films. This is fiction.
His gaze flicked, just for a second, to the desk. To the drawer she had left slightly ajar. “I’m afraid of being alone,” Marcus said
“Tell them what you learned,” Marcus said.
And more like a countdown.
“In here,” she called, her voice surprisingly steady. “I was just looking for a pen.” The auburn-haired woman was crying
Lena stared at her reflection in the dark TV screen. She heard the front door open. Marcus was home early. She heard him humming—that little tune he hummed while making pasta. The clink of his keys in the bowl. The soft pad of his footsteps.
Lena held up a pen. “Right where you left it.”
GIRLFRIEND TAPES.