On November 17, 2021, I met Marielle Turner. We were at the Hot 8 in Brentwood, and I thought she was coming on to me when she kissed me on the mouth by the water jug with the cucumbers in it. She still might be flirting. I’m not sure. I am sure she’s a fantastically well-matched yoga partner.
Marielle was a perfume salesperson at Pennington’s for 18 years. And on August 5, 2016, she ended up losing her whole nose. One morning she woke up and it had broken off, like a split end. She had used her nose so much, with such high notes of scent, for so many hours on end. It had just snapped. And then fallen off.
Marielle was the subject of every baffled science digest and magazine. “The doctors said it was a miracle it didn’t happen sooner.”
On April 23, 2019, Marielle was awarded five hundred million dollars for the loss of her nose. The loss of Marielle’s nose was the reason Pennington’s closed, although they claimed it was business loss due to COVID.
Today Marielle stops pacing and sits beside me on the tufted white chaise. Her living-room window light filters through her hanging plants. We are not talking about her nose.
“He was unmedicated and abusive in many ways, Prue. You didn’t deserve that,” Marielle says to me. Her eyes move then stop and rest in mid-focus. Sometimes she gets these slow spells and her eyes don’t move, as though I’m looking into the eyes of a pet that’s being euthanized.
These moments don’t last long, just short enough to remain charming.
“You were brave to leave, Prue.” Her eyes are still in daze.
I like the way she says my name. Prue. Like punctuation at the end of most sentences directed at me. It’s as though she’s a diner waitress, or a woman just trying to make sure I’m being attentive. Her pupils move again, and she lightly touches her nose. “Look at me, trying to talk about serious shit. Sorry. Well, let’s smoke a joint, then, shall we, Prue?”
On July 9, 2019, Marielle had the nose of Zoe Kravitz molded to make her own prosthetic nose. Now she has Zoe’s nose. Marielle went to Geneva to have Armend Berlinger, the best prosthetic nose maker in the world, make her a replica of what she thought was the most beautiful nose in the world. It’s really seamless. Marielle let me inspect it in the changeroom of the Hot 8, when we both dipped out during a particularly hot yoga class. I’d asked her if it could melt. She showed me how durable and natural it really was. It felt like skin. Like the feel of Zoe Kravitz’s skin.
“You’re very quiet today, Prue,” Marielle says, lighting the joint. She crosses her legs and the cushion on the chaise under us shifts slightly. I think about her accidentally lighting her nose on fire with her lighter. I uncross my legs, and Marielle puts her hand on my knee.
“Sorry,” I say. “My mind is foggy.”
She nods and exhales a billow of smoke. “I believe you could have had covid.”
“I never tested positive. But I am tired.”
She squeezes my leg, and we sit in silence. We pass the joint back and forth until it’s out, and she presses what’s left in her fingertips into the blue glass ashtray and removes her hand from my thigh.
I am already stoned. “Marielle?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Do you ever tell anyone you’re the reason Pennington’s closed down?”
“Never. I’d be ostracized. Everyone but Pennington’s employees loved Pennington’s.”
“I loved Pennington’s. Why’d you tell me?”
Marielle’s eyes drift off into that no-man’s focusland again for a moment. Then she smiles. At me. With focus. “Because the night my nose broke off, August fifth, twenty-sixteen, I had a dream that one day you would be the next person whose nose would break off, and that day is today, Prue. Tonight is the night your nose is going to break off.”
I stare at her, not knowing how to react at all, yet feeling so many emotions and imagining a huge hole opening up in the floor to swallow me whole.
“Wow,” Marielle stands up. “Sorry. Wow. That was good smoke. Wooo. I’m totally fucking with you, Prue. Want to go grab a coffee, Prue?”
And that’s Marielle. She walks and dances to the music in her head down the sidewalk ahead of me in a long-sleeve striped cotton top and black sweatpants. She gyrates and sways her hips low. Would I feel so free with a five-hundred-million-dollar secret? Would I feel okay knowing I’d stolen Pennington’s from everyone? I ask and answer myself. Yes. Yes, I would. Because I’d have Five Hundred Million Dollars.
“Hey, wait up,” I call and she turns around, her blonde hair whipping into her face. And I pick up my pace as I gyrate my way to Marielle and kiss her.
I love this. I can only heart it once, but really I'm hearting this 10,000 times.
I loooooved this story! Everything about it. The humour, the weirdness, the pacing, even the names. ❤️