Myrtle Wilson Monologue

I never thought in my lifespan would I ever see my cousin, Daisy Buchanan, or her husband, Tom again, but here I am, sitting on the metroline to the new Buchanan residence. It has been nearly three years since the death of Jay Gatsby. He is long gone and laying firm in the ground, sharing his grave with fresh despondency, even after three years have passed. Myrtle Wilson resides in near ground to Gatsby, but she is covered with much more of a stiff shell than just dirt and soil. Of course, in a likely hidden, unmarked grave in the Valley of Ashes lay George Wilson, as well. He is probably the least missed man I can give my thoughts to. George Wilson has perhaps gone through the head of a group of New York policemen once in a blue moon, with luck.
While gazing outside the rushing Thursday New York subway, I begin to wonder who else may have left the earth in my absence; I haven’t spoken to Jordan Baker in years. Her face hasn’t been featured on undistinguished newspapers in the last years, for what I know. My mind hasn’t focused on an unhonest woman in years, and I still am not quite sure why it has now. Perhaps Meyer Wolfsheim

Before I could ask why she had called, she had revealed her reasons in vague light. “I’m having a bit of difficulty in my life, Nick. Is there anyway we could meet again, anyway at all?” She whimpered silently, it was a tone that reminded me of the screeching brakes on Jay Gatsby’s Rolls Royce, when, or if, he touched them, at least. I found it curious that Daisy was holding restrictions on her voice and words. It often wasn’t difficult for me to say no; in fact my stubborn side had almost forced me to tell her to come to my repugnant home if she wants to see me again. However, this was Daisy Buchanan I was on the line with. “We moved to the outskirts of New York City,” I heard her whisper into the