The Lesser Half
This one is short for a couple reasons. It's my second time ever writing in first person present tense and my first time posting something in that POV. And I wanted to practice getting a thematic point across in a very short form, so I took a page out of the old writing group's book and gave it a shot (only 1277 words). So here you are. Hopefully I did things okay.
Feedback is welcome as always.
The Lesser Half
By
Marcus Mooney
"And the Diamond Song of the Year Award goes to...Kurt Nash!"
My heart sinks as the room explodes and my husband stands to get his award. It's been his lifelong dream to become a pop star, and now here he is. He's a handsome maned wolf, charcoal grey with blue highlights in his fur. His studded leather jacket, wild hair, and room-brightening smile complete his stunning appearance, which I always call his Charming-Devil-With-A-Touch-Of-Rockstar look.
My wolf takes his golden trophy and shakes the announcer's paw. The audience is still cheering by the time Kurt takes his place at the podium. He waits for the noise to die down before beginning the speech he spent an hour rehearsing this morning.
"Thank you all! I want to thank my fans and especially my lovely producer Simon Grey for leading me to this moment. I wouldn't be here today if it weren't for all the amazing support and inspiration from you all the way."
Ah yes, the fans. Millions of them around the world adore him, but none as much as I do. We met in college when Kurt's music career was still stagnant and I was no more than Sam Wilkinson, the otter on the swim team who he had eyes for. Neither of us knew we'd be here ten years later.
"But most of all, I want to thank my husband Sam. He's been my muse from the beginning. He's always been there for me even when life made me unbearable. So hon, my heart goes out to you."
I know the camera is probably trained on my face, so I force a smile and nod. Great, now I feel guilty. My heart swells with pride at the sheer accomplishment of my wolf, but at the same time I can't but let it sit in the bottom of my chest, weighed down with bitterness. It's not fair how beautiful he is in his tailored getup and shiny fur. I'm wearing my own black and navy suit, but I know I don't belong. I'm a sheep in wolf's clothing in this room full of millionaires.
"But I'm not stopping here," Kurt continues. "I'm still hard at work on my next album, so expect some pure gold in the future." He finishes with a wink that makes the audience scream again. They think he's boasting about another possible Diamond Award, but between us, Kurt has already named his next album 'Golden Boy.' It was his cute nickname for me back in college when I bleached my fur for a semester.
I spend the rest of the ceremony staring at the floor and then I'm the first one out once it's over. The press will want to catch Kurt for an interview before the after party, so this is my chance to dip.
Hollywood's eternal sun is one of the only good things it's got. We moved here five years ago after Kurt got signed so he'd have access to top-tier recording equipment and launch his career in a proper direction. With my software engineering job earning six figures, it wasn't hard to relocate. But I don't care for the glamour and the parties and paparazzi. Things were quieter in suburban Indiana.
Now I've quit my job, because who needs to work when your spouse earns millions already? But I regret that now; working gave me something to think about besides the life I lost. Maybe I should whip out the old resume tomorrow and give it a shot.
I can't be thinking of Indiana right now. I need a drink. My jacket comes off and I call a cab to find the nearest bar. A Beer Garden rests at the edge of town, so I go there. As I leave the cab, my phone buzzes to a text from Kurt.
"Where are you?"
_ _ I type out a quick reply. "Stepped out to get some air. Be back soon."
_ "K."_
_ _ The quaint little bar is perfect. The quiet atmosphere, low ceiling, and faint odor of old liquor reminds me of home. The bartender, a middle-aged bear with grumpy eyebrows, recognizes me immediately as I approach the counter.
"Sam Wilkinson!" he almost shouts in surprise, alerting the whole bar and making me cringe inwardly. "W-We didn't know you were visiting. We don't have any of the BrewFang Kurt likes, but -"
"Just a Bud Light please," I mutter quiet enough to let him know he's being too loud. He nods, retaining his gruff demeanor and getting back to work.
I settle in a corner booth with my beer and rest my head in my paws. What have I gotten into? First I say yes to moving to California and now this? Will it ever end? No, that's selfish of me. Kurt loves his music and his fans; I could never take that away from him.
"Are you Sam Wilkinson?"
Ugh, not again. I look up to find a petite vixen bouncing on her heels clutching a napkin to her chest. She couldn't have been older than twenty. Her eyes widen when she recognizes me.
"You are! Where's Kurt?"
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Of course. I'm not even a real celebrity, just married to one. "Not here."
"Oh," she deflated before immediately perking up again. "Well, since he's not here. Can I have your autograph instead?"
I look at the proffered napkin and shake my head, sipping my beer. "I don't do autographs. Sorry."
She wrinkles her nose and scoffs. "Why not? You think you're too good for autographs because Kurt makes all that money? You're just here to show off, is that it?"
Her abrupt change of tone catches me off guard. Who does this snotty self-absorbed fan think she is? No, that's wrong. She's just a person, same as me. The fame is getting to my head.
"No, I'm just taking a break. Kurt's still at the Diamond Awards."
"So what? No one there you'd rather talk to?"
"Only one I care about."
This time she's taken aback. Her face slackens as she scratches behind her ear with furrowed brows. "Why aren't you with him then?"
Suddenly this entire situation feels ridiculous, and I get an idea. "You're right. Look, I'll give you the autograph, but then I need to do something okay?"
Even after we got off on the wrong foot, she still accepts my sloppy signature on a frayed napkin. Once she leaves, I take out my phone.
Simon Grey, Kurt's producer, picks up after three rings. "Sam? Why aren't you at the party?"
"Never mind that. Listen, I need you to clear your schedule with Kurt for the rest of the month. We're taking a vacation."
"A vacation?" Simon repeats in utter confusion. "Kurt never mentioned a vacation."
"It was only between us until now. I just remembered to tell you," I say, praying this will go well with Kurt. "We're taking some time to ourselves."
"If you say so," he replies. "For the rest of the month though...three weeks is a long time. I guess I'll see you in April."
"Thanks." I hang up. That was easy. There's no use telling him not to tell Kurt. He'll find out anyway by the time the evening's up. Scrolling down to another contact, I find his manager and relay the same message.
I want Kurt to myself. I don't want to be married to a millionaire, but that ship has sailed. For the rest of March, I'm going to be an ordinary otter with my loving husband. Maybe I'll even bleach my fur and be his Golden Boy again.