Gone Girl

When I think of my wife...

...I always think of her head.

I picture cracking her lovely skull...

unspooling her brains...

trying to get answers.

The primal questions of any marriage.

"What are you thinking?"

"How are you feeling?"

"What have we done to each other?"

The Irish prince graces us with his presence.

His majesty prefers not to be moistened.

I got you a present.

Oh.

I hated this game. You loved it.

You loved it.

Thank you. I'll add it to the collection.

Can you pour me a bourbon?

What's up, Jitters?

Well, if you're not going to talk...

I'm gonna have to fill the silence...

with another excruciating story by Margo Dunne.

I could tell you about my recent customer service experience...

changing Internet service providers. I like that one.

Or how about the time...

I saw that woman who looked exactly like my friend Monica?

But it wasn't Monica. It was a total stranger.

Who was also named Monica.

Made it kind of interesting. It's great.

I'm just having a bad day.

Amy? It's our anniversary.

Five years. Five?

That came fast.

And furious.

I'm so crazy, stupid happy.

I met a boy.

A great, sweet, gorgeous, cool-ass guy.

Excuse me, miss?

I just want you to be careful...

where you put down that monk-brewed Belgian wheat beer...

because the party's down to three Beast Lights and a bottle of Pucker.

It might attract some desperate characters.

It could. I mean, the Amish are on a Rumspringa.

They already relieved me of my artisanal meat platter.

Finally, someone tells me how to pronounce that word.

"Meat"?

Yes, "meat." One syllable.

Thank you. Whose beer am I about to drink?

Don't tell me.

Let's see, who's your type?

I don't see you sitting quietly...

while he bloviates on his postgrad thesis about Proust.

Uh-oh. Is that him?

Ironic hipster, so self-aware,

he makes everything a joke.

I prefer men who are funny, not "funny."

What type are you?

Corn-fed, salt-of-the-earth Missouri guy.

Missouri? Mmm-hmm.

Cute. Hmm.

Native New Yorker?

The world ends at the Hudson.

What's your name?

Amy.

Well, Amy, who are you?

A, I'm an award-winning scrimshander.

B, I'm a moderately influential warlord. Hmm.

C, I write personality quizzes for magazines.

Okay. Your hands are far too delicate for real scrimshaw work...

and I happen to be a charter subscriber to Middling Warlord Weekly...

so I'd recognize you.

I'm gonna go with

And you?

Who are you?

I'm the guy to save you from all this awesomeness.

Oh, so, you write for a men's magazine.

God, does that make you an expert on being a man?

No.

It's what to wear, what to drink.

How to bullshit.

Never with you.

Ha, ha. No, I mean it.

It's hard to believe you. Why?

I think it's your chin.

My chin?

Yeah, it's quite villainous.

Okay, how's this?

A hundred percent true, no bullshit.

Okay-

We all move to New York...

and we end up living in these little cubby holes, and that's not it.

Come outside. Then, you're in it.

You have to see this.

Hey-

I have to kiss you now.

Is that right?

I can't let you go through a sugar storm unkissed. Hmm.

Oh. Wait a second.

There you go.

Nick Dunne...

I really like you.

So, is Amy gonna do one of those anniversary...

treasure hunts?

You mean the forced march designed to prove...

what an oblivious and uncaring asshole her husband is?

Wow.

Life. I don't remember the point.

Deep Hasbro thoughts.

Spin.

What was the clue last year she got so mad about?

"When your poor Amy has a cold...

"this dessert just must be sold."

The answer?

I still don't know the answer, Go.

A few years ago, you'd have known.

A few years ago, it was fun.

Year one, the traditional gift was paper.

She got me a beautiful notebook.

Told me to go write my novel.

What did you get her?

A kite. Hmm.

She'd never flown a kite. Okay.

Anyway. Year four, flowers.

She led me outside to the dying rosebush in the backyard.

Ugh, that's symbolic.

Yeah.

What's the gift for five?

Wood.

So, what did you get her?

There's no good gift for wood.

I know! Go home, fuck her brains out, slap her with your penis.

"There's some wood for you, bitch."

The Bar.

Why, yes. Hang on one second.

Hey, it's Watchful Wally.

Hey, Walt. What's going on?

Oh.

Thanks very much. I'll be right there. All right, bye-bye.

Hey, buddy. What are you doing out here?

Thanks, Walt!

Ame?

Amy!

Hello?

Come on in.

Hey-

Mister Dunne. Hi.

I'm Detective Rhonda Boney. This is Officer James Gilpin.

We understand there are concerns about your wife.

I don't know where my wife is.

And I came home to this.

Now, I don't panic easily...

but it's weird, right?

Mind if we look around? Please.

How long have you two been here?

Two years in September. We used to live in New York.

City?

Yeah, I was a writer. We were both writers.

Why did you all move back here?

My mom got sick.

Oh, I'm sorry. How is she?

She's dead.

I'm so sorry.

What do you do now, for work?

My sister Margo and I own The Bar downtown.

Oh, The Bar.

Love the name. Very meta.

Thanks.

Pretty things.

Stay.

My office, here.

Beautiful dress.

Date night? It's our anniversary.

Hmm.

It's a guest bedroom, there.

Cat's room on the end.

I checked up here.

This is the kitchen...

obviously.

This is my wife's office.

Amy's office.

Wow. Impressive gal.

Yeah. Should I be concerned?

I remember these.

I loved these books.

Wait a minute.

Your wife is Amazing Amy?

Yeah. She is.

Wow.

Amazing-fucking-Amy is getting fucking married.

That's how the night started.

With me, regular, flawed, real Amy,

jealous, as always, of the golden child.

Perfect, brilliant, Amazing Amy,

who's getting fucking married.

When I was 10, I quit cello.

In the next book, Amazing Amy became a prodigy.

Did you play volleyball?

I got cut, freshman year.

She made varsity.

When did you have a dog?

She got the dog.