Inside Voices
By Virginia Hogan
“And then I said, ‘Orange is no one’s most flattering color!”
Mark roared with laughter. No one was amused when she’d recounted the story over dinner last night, nor when she’d actually told Tito orange looked bad on him. She was just stating a fact. Orange is no one’s most flattering color.
But Mark applauded. He had the perfect, clever response. He didn’t overshadow her own storytelling bravado, he didn’t out-wit her. He rose to the occasion. His well-chosen words proved they were perfectly matched. She should know - she’d matched them.
While she knew his response was ideal, she couldn’t think of exactly what he’d said. She wasn’t capable of such wit. Mark was, though. Mark was the man in her head.
Boredom is the ailment of those who don’t can’t grow elaborate fantasy lives within the confines of their own minds. She had no way of knowing if others had Marks. Our interior musings are the last bastion of privacy.
She kept a running dialogue with Mark all day. When she had a counterintuitive take on an Atlantic article (she was very well-read), they’d hash it out. When she had a nasty (but funny) rumination about a celebrity’s appearance, she’d whisper it to Mark. He’d tell her she was bad, but she knew he meant it as a compliment. “Bad” when followed by a smile, meant “good.” She knew he’d forgive her. Mark didn’t hold grudges. Nor did she. She just chose to permanently like people less.
She didn’t need to indulge in Twitter or similar nonsense. No need for the validation of the masses. She had Mark.
Years ago, she’d seen the Real Mark in a play. He was cute, but relatably so. He wasn’t “hot,” he didn’t have “muscles” (not that she cared - it was 2014, did she need a man to skin her a goat? She was a vegetarian).
It had started slowly, like all lasting love. At first, she didn’t quite know who she was talking to - she was merely “thinking.” She’d stumble upon Mark while her mind meandered down an unknown path, and he’d be there to provide some insight. Only after months did she begin seeking him out.
She wasn’t always with Mark. She lived her own life. She had a job and a family and friends. She could ask and answer questions posed in real-time. She could get lost in the plot of a television show, although when she did, she took Mark with her, imagining the two of them soaring on the back of Daenerys’ dragon. With him, she wasn’t afraid.
Mark filled her idle moments. Waiting for the bus. Using the toilet. Watching people fight in public. Watching people be publicly happy. Watching people emote. Once you had a companion for life’s tedium, you realized just how much tedium there was.
Sometimes, on a date, she’d sneak off to the bathroom to debrief with Mark. She and Mark had the type of witty banter she couldn’t hope to have with a man she met in real life. None of them were good enough for her. Her happiness never depended on anyone else. This is what independence was.
After her sister died, she told the therapist about Mark, to ease tension, to let the woman know she was “okay.” That she still had a sense of humor. That she wasn’t lonely.
“We cling to fantasies when reality doesn’t meet our needs,” the therapist had said.
Oh, well, that was a simple fix. She’d just wait for reality to start meeting her needs. Duh.
They ordered dinner. Tito’s choice - chicken and waffles - and hers - seared salmon. He was now wearing black. He took advice well. The waitress delighted in his choice.
“I think she liked my order more than yours,” he said with a devious grin.
Tito was witty, like Mark. And apparently, he liked women who insulted him. She didn’t know if Mark did, too. She’d have to start insulting him, just to see how he reacted.
He offered her a ride home. He meant sex. You know it, I know it, Tito knew it, but she didn’t know it. Isolated transportation was her “couple” time with Mark, along with cooking, cleaning, trying to fall asleep, and letting her mind drift in group settings. But isolated transportation really allowed her to focus on him.
She declined Tito’s offer. She went home with Mark, the man in her head. The life she was growing in her mind was becoming overrun with weeds. But weeds are still part of nature, after all.
She told a coworker about Mark. It was her first time admitting it to a layperson. She had believed Mark was something like a masturbatory fantasy - worth keeping to herself, but not unusual. The coworker had revealed that she invented elaborate backstories for all six of her cats (five too many). She believed her coworker might be a kindred spirit. She was wrong.
The coworker looked at her like she was mad. She wasn’t mad. She wasn’t hearing voices. She had complete control. She’d created Mark to keep her company. People took pills to make themselves happy - what was so wrong with keeping someone to chat with inside her mind?
She took pills to make herself happy too. An increased dosage every year. Mark told her it was totally okay. Normal, even. Mark understood.
--
Three years later, Instagram told her Tito was engaged. Wow - to a woman he must have met within the past three years. She’d known Mark much longer than that. And yet, it moved nowhere.
She looked up Mark’s Instagram. He had never posted before, but she’d still checked it every day for eight years.
There was a photo of a dog.
The dog was orange. And it looked good.
Mark had his own life. Maybe she shouldn’t be making him live in her head anymore.
She took a shower. Mark came with her.
THE END