Liz

When I married Liz Taylor
I really thought that it would
last, that it would be the final
marriage for the both of us,
and so did she. I admit that
our track record with regards
to the nuptials was not stellar,
but we were as hopeful as two
new lovers should be at that
early stage of romance. When
our eyes met and locked in
the rear view mirror of my taxi,
as she rode in the back seat with
her fold up wheel chair, well,
we both knew that it was true
love. But sadly, she was never
home. She never put the time
in, or made the effort. Not
once did I see her at the stove
scrambling eggs or frying up
bacon, and a side order of
hashbrowns, not once did she
butter a toasted english muffin,
for me, never. And when we made
love, which was hardly ever, it
was pedestrian at best. She was
always too tired, involved with
her charities, always on the
phone, and her illnesses were
taking their toll. And here I
was her husband, albeit a taxi
driver, but her one true love
and all she could talk about was
Richard this and Richard that,
and the time Paul Newman
said this, or Orson Welles said
that. She was quite the name
dropper and I found it quite
annoying. Where was the violet
eyed beauty, Cleopatra, who
filled the screen with heat and
heaving bosoms, where was
Maggie the Cat, sassy and seething
with raw lust. I felt gypped.
Something happened along the
way, maybe it was the pills and
booze, the ups and downs with
a slew of bad husbands, but with
me I thought it would be different.
No such luck. I haven't seen or
talked to her in weeks, she's not
even in the hollywood rag mags
anymore. I have no idea where
she is, but there's a message on
my voice mail from her lawyer.
I guess I should listen to it, and
see what's up. I'll miss her, that
rascal, and think about her a lot
while I drive my taxi in seach
of my next fare.