Disclaimer: It belongs to Chuck Palahniuk, David Fincher and Twentieth Century Fox.

Note: A very (*very*) short piece that arose from a number of things. A want to get out of my normal fandoms for a bit. An exercise in a different style of writing. The fact that I just plain like Marla. And a sneaking suspicion that there was a hidden romantic streak somewhere within the original novel. The strange things cold medication and flying 35,000 feet in the air will do to you.

Note II: Typos suck.

Feedback remains a girl's best friend and constructive criticism is, as always, actively encouraged.

Let's just have done with it and rate it R.

CRAZY LITTLE THING

People ask me if I know Tyler Durden.

Do I know Tyler Durden?

What are you, fucking high?

We're a catch-22, me and Tyler. Damned if you do. Damned if you don't. Try to hang on loosely while falling.

He doesn't look like a Tyler. Skinny white guy with chicken-thin legs and a crooked smile. His hair never falls the right way, you know, always sticking out juuust to the right or juuust to the left. Alfalfa hair. Must've been a scrawny geek as a kid, grew into a gawky man-boy. He should be a David. Or a Mike. Maybe an Ed.

Yeah, he could be an Ed.

Sex is the least of it. No. Liar. The most of it. Long, loud, hard, sometimes on top, bottom, sideways, backwards, the type of stuff that'd have Mom spinning in her grave. Why, Marla, whyyyy?

Nice girls don't do that.

Lucky for me, I'm not a nice girl.

Makes it easier dealing with Tyler. Makes me not care so much. Well, as often. Sometimes.

Fuck it.

Not the first time getting laid has been more trouble than it's worth.

What? Am I supposed to break down here, burst into tears and wonder where it all went wrong as I sob out my story? Oh, if only I hadn't met Tyler, if only I had dumped his ass when I could, if only I had better self-esteem. If only I could have accepted myself as a person – loved me for me – then maybe I wouldn't have such bad taste. Is this the part where I blame myself?

Don't hold your breath.

Personal responsibility. Right. Tyler's the prick here or hadn't you noticed?

Fucking psycho.

Sometimes it isn't just sex. Tender, slow, Tyler gliding in and out of me, whispering in my ear of things unremembered in the morning. I cry as it hits me, no loud screams this time, just a breath of air as the wave keeps coming and coming and coming. Mom wouldn't have liked that either.

Come to think of it, Mom was kind of a puritanical bitch.

He can be funny. Long monologues in the night, rapid-fire one-liners and theoretical quips with me as a silent sounding board when he thinks I'm too tired to care. But if he knows me so well, he'd know I'm never that tired. And he's never quite as clever as he thinks he is.

Then morning comes and flick of the switch. Hello, Dr. Jeckyll. Good morning, Marla, why are you still here? We're different people, comes the sun.

Ha! Clever Marla.

It's not always so bad. As mindfucks go, I've been through worse. Probably haven't stuck with one so long, though. Guess that is my fault, yeah.

Only (and isn't there always an 'only' or a 'but' or even an 'however'?) between that midnight half of sarcasm and sex and that dawn half of bitterness and coffee, he can sometimes, almost, practically be an adult. Trying really hard with silly stories of Australian birthmarks and weirdly intimate knowledge of where I'm ticklish.

I'm deeply embarrassed by the fact that any of me is ticklish. Full grown woman, no time for girlish giggles, thanks. But there you have it (see? there it is again).

So on one side of the kitchen table – if this hunk of rotting wood can be called that – there's Tyler and on the other there's me saying, Marla, drop him because what's the point? And there isn't, not really, except maybe there is. Maybe I want to challenge myself, stick with something *because* it's difficult and a pain in my ass and won't go away even if I do. Which fits Tyler just perfectly, doesn't it?

Sometimes he frightens me. Terrifying in his single-mindedness, focused on the most insignificant detail. Child-like, petulant, and the chip on his shoulder dwarfs Alaska. Humorous, intelligent, almost capable of that one word, itsy-bitsy though it is and is it any coincidence there's four letters in it? But he's so far. Farther than the Grand Canyon, than the Atlantic. Mars. Doubt he even really understands it.

Life's a learning experience, Mom'd say.

Shut up, Mom.

He takes my hand, the most intimate gesture he's ever made, and smiles, mouth more crooked then ever with a jagged hole in his cheek, blood dripping along the side, sliding off his chin onto his collar. He's never gonna get those stains out. He looks at me, eyes clear for the first time since we met, no duality battling it out, and I think I see the whole picture now as police sirens fill the air and the skyscrapers burn.

His palm is warm as he squeezes my hand and says, "You met me at a very strange time in my life."

Do I know Tyler Durden?

Worst thing to ever happen to me.

But, hell, maybe that's not so bad.

FIN