I’m used to being a little off when I come inside, but I’m not used to feeling like a cheater who needs to shower before sliding into bed.
Then again, I usually avoid the bed altogether. I prefer the guest room and most nights, I work until I pass out on the sofa in my studio.
I head over to the bar in search of something to dull the ache. No bourbon tonight. I go instead for the single-malt Helen’s father gave me that last Christmas we spent together. The last time she could stand on her own.
I break the seal and blow the dust from one of the cut crystal glasses my wife would take out for guests and pour a hefty measure. The burnt peat smell wafts up and washes hot over my eyes.
Fuck it.
I pour a second dose, filling the glass almost to the brim.
Before the burn turns to tears, I head back out to my front porch where I slump into the rocking chair and sip my scotch.
Better. I’m not alone here, with the cicadas and whatever else is singing its ass off tonight. From farther down comes the low thrum of some kind of electronic music. Probably from the Dungeon, where people are happily getting their rocks off, without sadness or guilt or any of the other shit I keep carrying around like a fucking cross.
I’ve been to therapy. I know I’m not to blame for Helen’s death. I know I didn’t give her cancer. Nothing more I could’ve done to save her in the end, but fuck if it doesn’t feel wrong to enjoy life when there’s nothing left of my wife but ashes.
I take a good swig of scotch, so fine I imagine I can taste the barrel it aged in, then cough against the searing heat.
Actually, the tasting the barrel thing’s a lie. It’s something I might have said around Helen and her family or any one of her many friends. The fact is, I’ve got nowhere near the palate I’d need to tell something aged 8 years from 18.
Bet I could pick out my mystery woman’s pussy blindfolded.
The thought shoots through me and I’m instantly hard again. I shut my eyes on the twinkling lights spread out below, and breathe in and she’s there, on my face, on the fingers I’ve got wrapped around the glass. Her scent mingles with the whisky into a blend made just for me. I let my head fall back and sip, remembering everything.
After a while, I get restless and go to my studio, where I flip on the overheads and head right to the hunk of granite that’s been watching me from the corner these past few weeks, refusing to give me a clue as to what it’s meant to be.
I slip on my mask, grab my chisel and hammer and, without hesitation, knock off a corner, then another, turning around the damn thing like a fucking demon. This rock and I are in tune, unlike the goddamn obelisk behind me, where every smack of hammer to chisel was like pulling teeth. This is a meditation that hasn’t felt right in ages. Years. The tap of metal to metal, the scrape of chipping stone, then its plink onto the concrete floor. The music’s there, just like the shape beneath. It’ll be days before it’s recognizable, but I know what’s here, beneath the layers. I see it already.
I seethem, with perfect clarity.
Us.
Probably half an hour into the project, the door creaks, breaking the spell. “Whoa. Shit.”
I turn to see Zion Mason, known as just Zed in the kink world, standing in the doorway.
“You look like crap, Z.”
“Fuck off.” Laughing, he stalks inside, dropping his bags like he lives here—which he basically does when he’s not shooting movies or the show he’s starred in for the last few years. “Come here, you big grumpy asshole.” There’s no avoiding a hug, so rather than fight it, I wrap my arms around him and clap him hard on the back, accepting the same from him. As always, he tightens his hold and sways a little, keeping the hug going.
When I finally twist away, his face stays close to mine. “What’s that?” he says, backing off just when I think I’m gonna have to shove him.
“What?” I wipe at my cheek, figuring it’s dust or dirt or some other work shit, then narrow in on the leaf in his hand.
“On your face.”
“A leaf?” I put all the disbelief I can into my voice.
He shakes his head. “Pussy.”
I go still.
“You smell like fresh pussy, Liev.” He holds up the crushed brown leaf, twirling it like a daisy. “You’ve been rolling around in the woods.” He cocks his head when I don’t respond. “Who is she?”
“No idea.”
“Bullshit.”
