“Heigh ho, sing heigh ho unto the green holly
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly.
Then heigh ho, sing heigh ho. This life is most jolly.”

--William Shakespeare, “As You Like It”

-

The heavens twirled gracefully above the heads of the two lovers. Rebecca lay in John’s powerful arms and gazed lovingly upon alabaster brow. This would be their first date, and even the crickets seemed to approve of their love. They had walked together holding hands under the summer night air an hour ago, and already Rebecca knew that her relationship would last for a lifetime. What a perfect end to a romantic evening.

Her new emerald dress clung snuggly to her body, holding as closer to her body as John was to her. She never felt or looked more beautiful than on that date. Under a lone willow tree, the couple watched the sun drop below the horizon and the sky glisten with oranges, reds, and purples. It was as if God had painted the sky just to celebrate Rebecca and John. She wanted every moment of this night to last.

And then John gazed down longingly at her. She returned the gentle look. Rebecca felt her cheeks turn crimson and she saw that her love wanted to speak. Oh my God, she thought, thinking of a million possibilities for what he might say. Would he tell her what a nice evening he had? Ask her to go steady? Profess his undying love? Rebecca leaned closer to his face, awaiting the words that hung on his perfect lips.

“So, you wanna do it?” he asked, scratching his leg.

“What? What!” she screamed, her disbelief piercing the night like his callous question pierced her heart. She rose to her feet, almost sad to leave her once-trustworthy love’s embrace, and fled from the snake of a man. She stopped only once, to pull off the high-heels that so accentuated her perfect legs, and then she returned to her apartment and slammed the door behind her. What a waste of a night, she thought. What a waste of beauty, of passion, of wit and charisma

“Will, are you hitting on me?”

What?

“Because if you are, I want you to know that I only like you as an author. Don’t try to complicate that relationship.”

What are you trying to say to me?

She looked up pityingly and pulled on her nightgown. “Will, it’s really sweet of you to make me out as this amazing woman, but you need to keep your feelings out of the story. You understand, right?” She spoke as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “I’m sorry, but good night.”

She slid under her sheets and tumbled into dreamless sleep. The light of the moon disappeared behind dark clouds, and the sky began to freeze. The wind howled horribly overhead, and hail struck the house until the shingle of the roof began to tear. Shudders slammed against the house, and screaming, they fell to the freezing earth. Rebecca’s kitchen windows and several of her fine china plates were shattered. But the walls of her room stood watch over the still woman and shielded her from the raging of the storm.

The next morning, Rebecca wandered downstairs and jumped at the wreckage of her battered kitchen. She started to raise her hand to her mouth, but she stopped herself. Then she rolled her eyes, drew a broom and dustpan from the closet, and began to sweep up the pieces. She was…smiling?

“I know it was you, Will. You don’t make the most subtle threats.” She slid the fragments of her favorite china plates into the trashcan and returned to sweeping. “Hated those plates. I had to buy special detergent and a run a separate load of dishes to keep them clean.”

Don’t contradict me. You are undermining my authority as the author.

She snorted. “So do you think that means I don’t get an opinion on anything. Come on, Will. You’re smarter enough to know that’s not how it works. And I’m smart enough to know when not to listen to you.”

I created you! I have the control!

“Oh, please. Last story I was in, you had to get me drunk to make me cheat on my husband.”

You only had a glass!

“ ‘By the time she started pulling on another bottle of champagne, she noticed with some surprise that she was teetering dangerously far on her stool. Then she tilted back and smacked her head on the counter’.”

But you listened to me after that. You didn’t tell your husband like you wanted to. And you went on with your life just fine. Besides, you weren’t in love with your husband anyway.

“But what happened after that? That one-night stand came back, raped me, and stabbed me to death with a screwdriver. They didn’t find my body for five days, Will.”

It gave more gravity to the story. It brought poetic justice, the darkness of infidelity, and visceral entertainment. And you’re complaining because I made you the star of all this?

“But you’re not entertaining. You sympathize too much with your protagonists, you apply your themes with a sledgehammer, your descriptions are a joke…”

You can’t do any better! You’ve got a style as fluid as ice, you don’t think beyond what’s happening now, and you certainly don’t have anything profound to say. You don’t have any talent or skill! You can’t even do the buttons on the back of your dress without help.

She planted her fists on her hips. “So now were reduced to insulting each other? I can’t handle this. Goodbye, Will.” Rebecca let the broom crash to the floor and raced toward her garage.

Rebecca, stop. You’re angry, and you don’t know what you’re doing. Look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I care about you, Rebecca. I know everything about you. Your birthday, your favorite color, the music you like to listen to in the bathtub, your ambitions, your fears… I can be everything you want me to be, Rebecca. But you have to listen to me and respect my authority as a writer.

Rebecca’s hand fell away from the doorknob, and she turned deliberately. “No, you can’t. You act like you’re superior to me, try to muscle your will on me, treat me like nothing, and now you expect me to fall into your arms like in a bad romance story, which, by the way, this was, and just submit to you? You don’t know how to care for someone. You just want the power. If this,” she gestured to her kitchen, “is how you treat the people you love, then I want nothing to do with you. And if this is how you write your stories,” she said as she reached up,

Then I’m taking over for you, Will.

Will screamed in a less masculine way than he had hoped. “What did you do, you little-”

Ah ah ah. I will not have cursing in my story. I have standards. By the way, Will, thank you for teaching me about poetic justice. It certainly seems to be a useful literary device.

Will did not realize, could not realize, what she meant until his final moments, when the walls of Rebecca's room quivered, and the house finally collapsed under the terrible weight of the hail.