David was out of his head on MDMA and weed and champagne and prosecco and blanc de blancs and rosé and lambrusco.

New Year's Eve.

Given to gusto.

Rooftop to rooftop.

Like superheroes.

"There's a lesson in all this," he gesticulated wildly, "you see profit — money — requires exploitation of desire, not fulfillment of need."

Threw his head back maniacal.

"This is Mammon's teaching—wealth comes through stimulating lack, not in satisfying it."

Molly laughed hysterically.

She had no idea what the fuck he was talking about.

God damn she loved doing drugs.

One day she'd have to give it up.

Oh, one day she'll have to give it up.

So what's up?

It came to her.

"The blood of the lamb. The blood of the lamb."

Repeated the mantra.

"The blood of the lamb. The blood of the lamb."

She repeated.

"The—"

"What?"

David woke up.

She laughed big teeth and impossible volumes.

Slapped his chest, traced the peak of his lapel.

"I don't know. Let's fucking dance."

He downed whatever left's wet and they slid to the floor.

(Wanted to be whisked away,
Like any other princess . . .)

There she was in the kitchen.

Eating ingredients like it was a meal.

(It.)

Underwear and a T-shirt.

Old and tattered.

Ratty, ratty.

Couldn't be bothered.

Holes and threadbare.

Cheese from a bag.

A rodent's ration.

Sometimes she felt she didn't deserve to eat.

She hadn't made enough money.

Hadn't garnered enough accolades.

Not enough.

Never enough.

She wasn't enough.

That was what Ken had said to her.

After all.

(His name really had been Ken, the doll)

"You're not enough."

(With his swept hair)

Not enough.

Echoed in her head like an outro.

Bouncing.

And then:

"Thoughts are like an invasive species," Lee had said, once.

The doctor's confidence.

Gleaming.

He wore sportcoats with patch pockets.

Fine stitching.

Handmade.

Unstructured and unlined, Italian.

Lived by the beach, "North of Montana," as he'd tell it.

And then there was David.

Off in the hills.

A music man in a house on stilts.

"God, I wish I could be a vegetarian."

He looked at Muggsly.

"I eat things smarter than you every day."

The man lived on pepperoni pizza.

Molly wondered if his heart might explode.

David doesn't much care.

He's said as much.

He'll never get old.

Even if he does.

Bought his house in the '90s, way back.

Back when A&R was a thing.

When there were artists and repertoires.

Back Before.

He leaned back in teak, commanding the patio.

"When I was a kid I wanted to fight in World War II. I didn't understand that that wasn't possible. So I got really obsessed, like, with time travel, you know."

. . .

"I think I just wanted a clear objective.'"

. . .

"A man needs a task. Idle hands, you know, Jack off six or seven times a day. Shit."

David was no slob, but sometimes he slouched toward it.

"I'm sorry I couldn't be, uh, a little more . . . active? My back . . ."

"You were fine."

"Fine?"

"You were great!"

David exhaled a sigh.

"I'm serious. I like a man who can work from underneath."

"Are you calling me a mechanic, or Satan?"

She toyed with his chesthair.

"Yes."

They were bedragged in improbable outfits.

David'd ended up in only a wrongly-buttoned cardigan.

Molly one sock and tank top.

"You're stealing the blanket."

"No I'm not."

"My ass is cold. Give it up."

David snatched the cotton topsheet from under.

Redistributed it evenly.

"There we go."

"Fine, fine. Didn't know you were cold."

"Gets cold in the canyon. You know how it is. Strange wind up here."

"Very poetic."

"Thank you."

"You know, if you're so cold, we could . . ."

Raise of an eyebrow.

"We could."

David was always good-to-go.

You'd think — you'd think.

That the iffy diet and smoke and drink would've taken his dick from him.

You'd think.

"I just gotta be careful with my back. One week, two weeks, I'll be good."

"You'll be great."

Hands all over each other.

Like teenagers.

"I suppose I should have a look at your engine bay, ma'am."

Molly laughed.

"Stop it."

Rolled her on top of him, set to work.

"You wanna go again?"

"Yeah."

Into place.

Face-to-face.

Full eye contact, intense.

Grind to glide.

Wild eyes.

Fucked up hair.

Drying sweat reactivated.

Set the earth quaking.

Shake the foundation.

An old house.

Yes.

It's an old house.

But the bones were good.

David was spacy.

Molly too.

But when they fucked it was "me-and-you."

Here, now.

Lee?

Sometimes Molly wondered if he was gay.

All those clothes.

The perfume.

The loafers.

Every now and then a certain step or gleam in the eye.

Doctor Lee.

Shit.

Maybe everyone's gay.

Molly was so stoned.

"Hey, check this out."

David handed her a magazine.

"What's this?"

"Low-minded smut."

She looked it over.

BIG BUTT SLUTTZ VOL. 17: AUTO SHOW HOEZ '92
by FREAK PO$$E ENTERTAINMENT

"Found it in a filing cabinet I bought at the estate sale over the weekend."

"The costume director guy?"

"Yeah, did all that shit in the '50s and '60s."

"Shit. I had wanted to go to that."

"Beautiful house. Half-dilapidated, but damn, what a view . . ."

"How do you figure he ended up with this?" She took in the fat ass neon yellow flosstrung tooted-up and draped over a sleek black Acura on the cover. "Son-in-law?"

"Who knows. Something gone wrong."

"He was gay, right?"

"Yeah. Oh, yeah. The paintings he had? Yeah. Very."

Molly thumbed through the volume of thick flesh.

"You know you can feel the thinning of the veil, autumn's coming on, it's like, the spirits are all, like, a little closer."

David took a drag off an infused pre-roll of inadvisably high THC content.

"This is, like, Martian shit."

A sputtered cough-laugh.

He offered, extended.

Molly accepted, took a half-hit and choked.

"Jesus, it really is."

He scooched cross the noisy vinyl of the cracked diner booth.

They were basking in the after.

Yellowed foam extruding deep burgundy vinyl.

Escaping cushion chunks.

Molly's oldest-longest friend Sarah Jane had said once,

"He only listens to classical music? Is he, like, racist? Wait, how rich is he?"

The gallery job was going nowhere.

The director was trying to fuck her in the sweatiest possible way.

Hopeless and heavy.

He doesn't merit naming.

Lusting after her in his too-tight black suits.

Lording over his failing white cube.

God knows whose money he's washing.

Whose balls he was gargling.

The art market was collapsing.

The floor in freefall.

"Everybody just wants shitty identity art these days," Lee re-assured her, "or well, they don't want it, but that's what they're getting."

"Some of them probably want it."

She was drunk, woozy.

The beachy cottage hummed with soft Bach.

"You know, I've got some friends, Hungarian . . . They're thinking of opening a gallery."

"I don't want to work for István, Lee."

"Oh come on."

"Be serious."

"He's not that bad!"

"Every show he puts on is like, LA art's deposed disgraced rapist all-star squad."

"He doesn't have allegations, does he?"

"I mean, not as far as I know . . . But look at the company he keeps."

"Sure, well — you know, it's all gotta be financed somehow . . ."

Lee frowned.

A rarity.

His mother'd taught him not to.

Better not to age.

But her lungs gave up at the age of 48.

She'd never taken a drag of anything.

Gotta figure there's some genesis to the hauntedness of doctoring.

Your brief relations become ghosts.

Dependent children gone.

Keeping the end forever in mind.

Counting hours in exhaustion . . .

"Lee, are you alright?"

"What? Yeah—"

"You were staring."

"Oh, yeah." He smiled. A little too dialed-in. "I've got a guy, coming about the kitchen tomorrow."

"You hardly even cook."

"Right, but I'm tired of looking at it."

"You move quick."

"You know this."

And she's off.

With a kiss.

"Do you want something from in there, right now?"

He smiled again.

Correctly this time.

Like a real boy.

"I think I'll have some calvados and gin."

"Sounds good."

"Do you know if we've still got Allspice dram?"

"Don't think so."

"Damn."

"Well what'll you have?"

"What you're having."

And so she did.

"Oh my god, have you seen her lately? She looks like Ozempic Lana."

She'd take on the mannerisms of a catty reality TV gay.

Voice shifting bitchily.

"I've gotta be on set for a music video tomorrow."

David's hollow baritone.

"They still make those?"

Molly, blunt.

"I mean, they make them. Not sure who's watching."

Void of enthusiasm.

"Don't you have, like, people for that? Metrics? Something?"

"I don't trust any of that shit. You know they're cooking the books well-done."

"Did you just make that up?"

"What?"

"'Cooking the books well-done'."

"I think so, yeah, I must have."

"It's crazy that you can come up with stuff like that."

She laughed, touched his arm.

("Escalating kino," he thought to himself)

He wasn't a pick-up artist but he knew the lay of the land.

Leaned in for a kiss.

Took her by the hand.

And down the neck.

Traveling.

A bit much for public but everyone in this diner is drunk or distracted.

She'd let a guy finger her once in an Italian restaurant, right after college.

She was a Big Girl in the City, and wanted it all.

She snorted.

Corn-ball.

He'd fondled and played beneath the checkered cloth.

They'd met at a newsstand.

What a premise.

Feels like ancient history.

The promise of all memory.

Guess it's getting there.

"I'm tired."

She batted her eyes.

Heavy suggestion.

His suit's too snug.

Too big, too.

The shoulders are too narrow.

They pinch and they bunch.

The waist is shapeless.

Those sleeves are too much.

A showy display of functioning cuffs.

But she'd noticed a rise in his trousers, so to speak.

So it's after-dinner plans.

Her turn by the hand.

"We paid, right?"

Drunk.

Always so drunk.

Gotta get full somehow.

And then, wanting more.

Always more.

She hated that he smoked, but he did.

Always just a hint on his jackets.

They fucked that night, twice.

Once quick and bangingly and once gently.

"My shit's rubbed raw," he laughed.

A sort of satisfaction.

An exhaustion.

She knew how to ride a dick.

She didn't know much, she thought to herself.

But she knew that.

"Before you go, before you go—"

"Yeah?"

"Will you suck me off?"

"Thought you were raw."

"I am, I think I want to disintegrate entirely though."

"Well what do I get out of it?"

"I—"

"I'm just kidding, I know what I get."

She hit her knees and took him there in the living room.

He came almost immediately, more than you'd think for a third-timer.

She smoothed her skirt, smiled, kissed him, turned, and left.

He loved it when she acted slutty like that.

"Muggsly don't jump on the fuckin' bed— Fuck!"

Too late.

"He's a little mud-man. A creature."

A rare L.A. rain.

"He is a creature."

The mutt rolled in the linens.

"Pleased with his filth."

The air felt pure and clean.

"He's chthonic. Am I saying that right? Chthonic? That's like, the call of Ka-Tu-Lu, or whatever, right?"

Cut through with green.

"Is that that Tiki convention you used to go to with Alex?"

Canyon chypre rising.

"Alex Sandoval or Alex Espinoza?"

The fragrant basin expressing itself.

"The leather jacket one."

Open sky inviting.

"Sandoval. No, we never went to the Kahiki Club. You're thinking of Tony."

Pull of a joint in half-lighting.

"I could have sworn it was Alex."

Low-lidded woozy bliss.

"Nope. Tony."

Chunkiest sweater you've ever seen. Thick knit. Big old thing. Worn long. Over the wrists. Seams clasped in fingertips. Grounding.

Belted cardigan. Loose as you'd like. Wears like a robe. Layers just right.

"Tony, shit, yeah. He had the accident?"

Cuts a perfect drape. Keeps in perfect shape. Gets up at the crack, stays up laidly late.

"Yeah, out in San Lucero. His parents had a beach house out there. They said they'd never seen a shark at that beach, like, ever, in recorded history."

Piled under blankets, snuggled.

"That's so fucked. That's fucking crazy. Do you still talk to him?"

Lazily.

"Not really."

Settled into silence.

And sleep.

She had an aunt in Orange County who was a swinger.

Aunt Maggie.

"Maggie and Molly,"

Granddad'd say,

"Two peas in a pod."

Then he passed away.

"Went up to god."

Grandma.

They were about the same age, separated by only a few years.

But Maggie'd moved differently.

Married young to a software shark.

They lived high on the hog.

And tipsy too.

A bordello vibe and a raft of booze.

A real lazy river over there.

Her mind drifted in the soundbath.

Some weird friend of Sarah Jane's.

She'd gotten stoned before, couldn't remember her name.

Katrina or Katerina or Ketamine or something.

Who knows.

She seemed nice enough.

Wholesome and crunchy with a willowy hug.

"Oh my god, Molly, Sarah Jane's told me so much . . ."

She resisted the urge to pre-empt the punch.

"Don't self-deprecate."

Sarah Jane's voice.

"You do it to avoid doing what you want."

She wasn't wrong.

"Hahaha. Thanks."

Molly offered back the hug.

Katalina? or Katelynn? wore a cozy cosmic shrug.

Neon-knit geometric sweater long over plain black tights.

Skinny bird legs.

The type of girl who always looks cold.

A spectral seeker.

She spoke in sparse koans.

Addressed the gathering in the community auditorium.

She rang gongs and rung bells and even played the harmonium.

And Molly went into her head, drifted.

Floating on waves.

She'd fucked a guy on vacation once.

Cliche.

Spain.

Near-nameless.

Not quite wordless.

Close.

She'd wanted to be a worldly girl.

And so she was.

As it turns out, the girl's name was—

If you don't read it, the bill doesn't exist.

That's the logic.

It's magic, but it fits.

Molly pushed the envelopes into the trash.

Watched its hungry mouth swing and flap.

Thought to herself:

I ever get rich I'm investing in a shredder.

"You know my Ex said I was toxic."

He always said it like that.

His Ex.

You could hear the capital E.

The prominence.

She'd been a big part of his life.

They'd been married.

Molly'd seen photos of the wedding.

Some Sonoma winery.

The dress was terrible.

"Am I toxic? Do you think? Molly?"

She startled in stoned thought.

"Molly?"

"Sorry."

"Do you think I'm toxic?"

Clenched and stretched her hands overhead, lifting her cotton terry sweatshirt across an arching and aching back.

"I think I'm tired."

Leaned into a crack.

"Alright."

Stiffness leaving.

"Do you think you can take me back?"

Lee frowned.

"I guess."

"I just need to get my jeans on."

"I'll get dressed."

Morning mud.

Standstill traffic.

She hated to be scheduled because she didn't like to be reminded of dying.

Refused time.

Gave it no mind.

What's the matter?

Better to be bumbling on blind.

Didn't want to know if it was Wednesday or Thursday.

Didn't want to be out on the weekend with the working hordes.

Didn't want to be in on a weekday like some boring girl.

She denied time but still it ticked.

Watchers wondering at maternity's itch.

(It's not that she didn't like kids . . .)

Mutters and tutting and fuss.

She kept a background awareness.

Covered her ass.

Had the radio on.

Satellite.

It came with the car.

She didn't pay for it.

Assumed one day the subscription would run out.

Or maybe it'd just go on forever.

Some things are like that.

All those golden hits of an earlier age.

She'd seen some precious records hanging in their custom frames.

Walked long hallways of awards and prominence.

All that recognition made manifest.

Picked up the brush and she put it down.

Picked up the brush and she put it down.

Picked up the brush and she put it to her mouth.

Took a few paces round the house.

It wasn't coming.

Wasn't working.

Wasn't flowing.

The ideas were there but no images were showing.

She remembered why she'd quit in the first place.

And all that she got was paint on her jeans.

And a spot on the floor.

She'd never notice til the security deposit came back famished.

Garnished.

Lacking.

Your tile's cracked.

Your credit's a mess.

And your rep is tarnished.

Your nails are bit-down and your floors are unvarnished.

The slippage of years.

A life in an instant.

She stroked the canvas with a singular hateful criss uncrossed.

A leftward slash.

Down.

A fat line narrowing.

Thought to herself:

"Maybe if I make up some bullshit story about this, Why it Is How it Is, How it Got to Be This Way, attach some fucked-up trauma to it, lean into some disability or something, get some really bad glasses, just terrible gimmick glasses, something, I don't know, some disfigurement, I could sell it, I can sell it for $35k, a hundred grand, three hundred grand, 350?, do I hear 350?, 400! 500! Six, six — seven! — 1.2 MILLION DOLLARS . . ."

And so on.

To infinity and its pools.

Swimming in coin and keeping it cool.

She thought like a goddamn beatnik when she smoked pot.

And good goddamn she got stoned a lot.

Fleet-footed heart and racing thought.

Forgotten breaths with the abdomen taut.

She kept an Olivetti typewriter on a side table.

Just in case.

Hairpin wobble.

Slightly unstable.

Flower vase.

A flea market find from some mid-mod faker.

Wondered sometimes if she was autistic, all that shit with the label maker.

The satisfaction of giving something a name.

Lord knows she wasn't expecting children.

All the same.

That doorbell rings she's not sure how she's answering it.

("Looking like a no," Sarah Jane would laugh)

"You know one of my interns asked me a bold question earlier."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah — how many bodies do you have?"

Lee laughed.

"I was like, uh, well," he grasped the lapels of his sportcoat, thumped his chest, ran his elegant hands along the crease of his slacks, "I think just the one?"

She laughed.

"Did you know what he meant?"

"No, I—I'd never heard that."

"He had to explain it to you?"

"Yeah."

"Well what did you tell him?"

Uh-oh.

She knew what she was doing.

Not quite "starting a fight for fun" level, but she's fishing with dynamite.

His broad brow furrowed.

"I told him I'm not sure that's mission-critical information."

"Is that what you said?"

"Something like that."

"I'd have figured you'd have gone on some hour-long Bro Session, talking about all the ass you'd ever had."

He laughed.

"All the ass I've ever had," echoing.

"I mean come on. You're a hot-shot doctor with a million-dollar smile, and I mean that like, when a million dollars was still a lot of money, you know—"

He sighed in equal parts at flattery and inflation.

"You've got that thick-ass head of hair, you've got visible abs, you can salsa. You're a fucking soap opera character."

"You've got a thick ass yourself. Do you like fucking a soap opera character?"

Very direct.

"Well, it can be . . . slippery."

"You're terrible."

"I know."

And they were on each other.

His dick already hard from the wordplay and tension.

She had no idea how many girls he'd had.

He knew nothing about her past.

Didn't want to.

He liked what he saw.

Appraised his prize.

She looked good in a dress, nice in a blouse.

Looked great naked, fit the picture of a spouse.

Something he could hold onto.

Some earthly tether.

Really made him think about A Future Together.

She'd seen the property taxes for the beach cottage once.

Accidentally.

Hadn't meant to.

It was a mix-up.

Really.

The mail had been open on the counter.

"Jesus Christ."

She kept it to herself.

She was smart.

The scraping of pots and pans.

The clang and the klank.

Bald tires on spent pavement.

She grit her teeth.

Bore it.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fucking goddammit.

Muttered under.

A call from Lee.

Pleasantries and assurances.

"I don't think you're autistic, Molly."

"You don't know."

"You're diagnosis shopping."

"Sarah Jane says I don't have any sensory gating."

"Sarah Jane doesn't have any medical training."

"She's got good sense though."

"If you say so."

"One day, you'll meet her and see."

"Dinner's at 7. Lebanese."

"Okay, Lee."

They parted ways, digitally.

Call ended she was thrust back to the noisy realm.

Under duress and overwhelmed.

She drew her breath, like any other edged weapon.

Slow swivel, quick-stepping.

Sarah Jane in her head:

"You're not shopping, you're just asking questions."

"Ma'am!"

Ugh.

"Hey, Ma'am!"

OK.

"You know . . ."

"You know you know you know . . ."

"You . . ."

A crooked finger.

"You look just like Betty Rowland!"

Some creep had said it to her once, leering on the boulevard.

His breath stunk a deep stank and his hat was crumpled.

A dirty band wrapped round a rotted crown.

Tatty brown overcoat, gnarled old wool with holes.

Deep stains on an ancient scarf.

He sat in pigeon shit, watching from a grate.

She'd trudged by in mid-period bloat.

Hoping to escape the gaze.

Sweatsuit anonymous.

Big sunglasses.

On a traipse to the pharmacy, seeking root salvation.

She didn't have the time this week to see Her Usual Girl Lisa for a touch up on her color so she was — in a fugue of shame — seeking boxed solutions.

Things were simply getting much too red.

Ruby roots flush.

Thank god for dad and a head that stays lush.

Both ways.

Shit.

She dyed her hair just about black but kept the downstairs natural.

So it looked like clown fur on the floor to her when she'd prune here and there.

Lucky Lucille Ball.

Disaster hazmat.

She never shaved it down Y2K razor stubble.

Not since high school, some bad time ago.

"Corny porno shit," she thought to herself.

She'd voiced this opinion aloud, once, drunk.

On the back patio of some show, some synth thing, something, some time forgotten, down in Echo Park.

"I don't know, sometimes it's alright . . ." Sarah Jane had trailed on, floating on some borrowed cigarette, swerving for the exit.

She'd felt like an inconvenience in childhood.

Nagging need.

Only child lonesome.

A halo of chainsmoke rising above the TV recliner.

Dad had gone to work one day and got lost.

As adults do.

Or so it seemed.

The office just swallowed him up.

Ate him whole.

Maybe he had a second family somewhere.

Maybe they'd been the second family.

Who's to say?

The chicken, the egg.

The cock and its cage.

Maybe he wound up in the bottle.

Or the clink.

Mom never followed up.

Hard to know, really, what to think.

All she had was stories.

And Mom at work.

She'd come back, late in the evenings.

Tired in mascara and stockings.

Tendons warped from heels and hallways.

"Oh work was fine . . ."

An empty stare.

Maybe Dad's alive on Mars somewhere.

Hide nor hair.

Maybe he's in Hell.

Or rotting.

Maybe in some home forgotten.

"Would you even recognize him?" she wondered.

Surely not.

Wouldn't know him from any other baldspot.

She'd seen old photos of his wild hair.

Band days and fanfare.

He'd settled down for just a while.

Just enough to give life to a child.

But not enough to tend it.

"Let's just make up names for ourselves."

"Make up names?"

"Yeah fuck it it's just some dumb rave."

"Okay."

"I'll be Chiara."

"I'm Clive."

"Let's go."

A scornful list.

"Your money and your house and your status."

Lee was pissed.

"You're the one that holds all the power."

Molly miffed.

"What do you mean?"

"You can leave."

"Is all I'm worth my absence?"

Tensions mount.

"You know Molly, sometimes you act like things just happen to you."

"What do you mean?"

He laughed a laugh that wasn't a laugh.

"Like you've got no agency. No involvement. Like there's nothing you can do about it."

"Are you calling me a fatalist?"

"I'm not being that nice."

A smile that's not quite a smile.

"I need something to drink if you're going to be haranguing me like this."

"I'm not haranguing you."

A frown that's absolutely a frown.

"And you've had six drinks."

Lee always counted her drinks.

"You're a doctor, not my doctor."

"Molly."

She lurched from the chaise lounge.

"I'll get it myself."

Lee sighed.

He couldn't very well send her home in this state.

She returned from the kitchen with dark rum.

"Can you tell how many drinks it is?"

Held her glass aloft.

"Molly, you're spilling."

"Whatever, it's hardwood, I'll get it."

She handed him the glass, turned back toward the kitchen to fetch a towel.

He sniffed.

Phew.

High-proof molasses-heavy rum, probably Jamaican.

The tiniest hint of Coca-Cola.

He sipped it.

Smith & Cross Navy Strength, he was pretty sure.

And he'd know.

He had a pretty extensive collection, after all.

"You know,"

She's back. Works at the spot with a dropped towel and her foot, circular motions.

"You can be a real asshole sometimes."

Takes her drink back and down.

"I just . . . I want to see you doing what you should be doing, Molly."

She was crying.

"And I can provide that."

David's voice was deep and smooth, soothing.

"You need time and space, you need resources and support, you can be anything, do anything . . ."

"It's too late!"

Tears and snot on a cashmere sleeve.

It'll come out with a bit of cold water.

Not a big deal.

It'll be fine.

It'll all be fine.

She's breathing too fast.

He's hardly breathing at all.

"What do you mean it's too late?"

"I'm not some Bright Young Thing anymore, I can't just do whatever, it's not all ahead of me. It's behind me. Behind me!"

"I'm behind you, Molly."

The ego of doctors.

Some of these fuckers think they're gods.

And some of them live like it.

Lee does.

"You know, I thought about becoming a plastic surgeon," he'd joke at parties, "but it seemed a little too on-the-nose."

They'd all bray jackass laughter.

He was a top radiologist.

Important and in-demand.

He saved lives, or so he was told, and often.

Hard not to get a little high on your own supply with all that "My Hero" shit.

He resisted, to the extent that he could.

Allowed himself the beach and its breezes, the Miami Blue 911 Porsche that set off his blonde hair and tailored wardrobe, the wine collection, the wine glass collection, and of course you'll be wanting fine cabinetry . . .

The liquor.

He hardly even drank it.

The fucker.

Allowed himself Women.

Molly.

As far as she knew she was the only one.

As far as he knew he was too.

Little did he know.

Her?

She had her intuition.

"I want you to come inside me."

She was on birth control.

He hated that about her.

Thought it made her unstable.

And he was a doctor, he should know.

But he kept his mouth shut to keep his balls empty, being a smart man.

Christ, he thought.

At least she wasn't on SSRIs.

"You've got to turn the light around. Inwardly. Focus."

David hummed.

"Ever since you've been going to those meditation classes you've been so fucking weird."

"Molly please don't criticize my zazen sittings. They're all that's helped."

"Lee, you want everything to be perfect. And I'm not perfect."

"Nobody's perfect."

"You're close."

"You approach it as well."

"My satyriasis is acting up."

"What's that?"

"A joke."

"I don't get it."

"You're going to."

"We're violent tournament apes, Molly. We compete for resources. Money, space, ownership. Sex."

"Do you want kids?"

"That was abrupt."

"Do you?"

"No. It's a little late for that, don't you think?"

David was incredulous.

"I don't know, it's LA. It's the 21st century. People have kids at like 80 now."

"That can't be healthy."

"Probably not."

"I mean, for anyone. The kid's gonna be born all fucked up, right? I mean I'm not a doctor or anything . . ."

She had a micro-heartattack.

Does he know?

No.

He never asks, anyway.

She liked that about him.

"And then the dad like dies or whatever, you know, like, when the kid's a baby, right, the kid never even knows the dad, really, the dead dad, but maybe they get a fat wad of cash out of the deal, something, inherit a trust or something, you know, whatever, some real estate empire, something fat and dripping, all that jazz, okay, right, but then, you gotta wonder if they're gonna be bitterer than hell, like Why Were You Never There For Me?, Why Did You Bring Me Into This World?, all that shit, you know."

His voice went velvet and heady when he was stoned, and he was always stoned.

He rambled.

Rose.

Reached.

Jars everywhere, cannabis flower.

Lighters and ashtrays.

Vape carts, all-in-ones, chargers.

Specialty pre-rolls.

Edible gummies.

"I just wouldn't want to do that to someone . . ."

Softly, sweetly, neatly:

"Me neither, honey."

"Would you like to extend your stay, miss?"

Lee kissed her on the forehead.

She was waking, groggy.

Coming into being.

Where am I?

Who am I?

How did I get here?

All flooding back.

Just like every day.

He'd rented a place down in Laguna for the weekend.

Oceanfront balcony.

The moon had been huge the night before.

"I can't stay. I've gotta go to work."

"You don't gotta go to work."

"Says who?"

"Says me."

"You can only say that kind of thing because they can't fire you."

"They could fire me."

"They're not going to. I'm very fireable. You save lives. I sell paintings to finance criminals."

"Ahhhh." exasperated.

Lee pulled a pillow against his face.

"What?"

He drew it away.

"I just want to get you out of there. Pluck you."

Molly laughed.

"You want to fuck me."

"It's true."

"Fair. I want to be fucked too."

"Spirit you away from that soul-killing job . . ."

She rose from the bed.

"Your rescue squad is too exhausted."

Index finger to his nose.

"What?"

"Nothing, nevermind."

"You speak in riddles sometimes."

He's back under the pillow.

"We can't all be saviors, Lee. Have you seen my socks?"

A muffled no.

"I've got to go."

The phonecall came in.

"I want to take you shopping."

Lee was a phonecall guy.

"I — . . . Okay."

That was easy.

It's a date.

For right about now.

Don't be late.

Show up in bells.

"I want to see you put it on, see you in it, and take you in it. If it gets wrecked in the process, I don't care."

"Is this like a fetish thing?"

"Would that be a problem?"

"It sounds like you need a track day."

"I need a lot of things."

He clasped her necklace, the sterling she'd left at his place.

"Sometimes I walk around Saint Jude's half-hard just thinking about you, and I think about variations. White panties. Black panties. Skirt pulled up. Lace panties. No panties. Blouse undone. Top off altogether. Keep it on. Take it off. All the permutations. All the variations . . ."

"Red leather catsuit?"

"Not sure I'd ever thought about it, but now I have."

"Sounds like you're fishing for photos."

"I don't need photos, I need it in my face."

"You're such a creep."

She laughed.

"I'm serious. I just want to inhale you sometimes."

"If we're going to do this I don't want it to be new clothes. That just feels unethical."

"That's fine."

And it was off to the consignment shop.

It's difficult to fuck in a sport coupe.

It's risky to fuck in an electric blue car on a busy street.

But nothing ventured, nothing gained.

So they left it on a side street and ventured in.

"What if some other freak like you ran the same scheme with the outfits and then sold them, though? I mean — how many girls do you think have been fucked in this dress?"

"I think you like to think about that."

"You think a lot of things."

"I like a lot of things."

"It's the little things."

She tugged at his belt.

The fitting room attendant was moored in a phone screen scrolled, absent.

"We could just do it right here."

She whispered low.

"I'm thinking about it."

"You think a lot of things."

She turned heel and walked to the fitting room slow in bare feet.

He watched every step and the shake of its consequence.

Black silk, backless.

Took her in.

Calculating variables.

Her pilates back, dancer's build.

Fuckable.

Marriagable.

What a combo.

An ample backside but not Too Much.

That would be vulgar, of course.

For a prince as such.

Added up.

Aristocratic.

Lee'd always liked them aristocratic.

Always.

But they needed to be demons between sheets.

Of course, of course.

Madonna meat.

("You're parting me out like a butcher," she'd said to him once,
when his compliments overwhelmed.
A carnival, a festival.
Slaughterhouse.
Carpaccio.)

Her voice came back to him like a dream.

He snapped to.

The attendant was gone.

Out of sight for now.

All clear.

"Do we dare?"

"Not here."

Giggling children.

"Let me buy it before we break it."

The troughfull pride of the paypig.

Daddy moneybag, self-satisfied.

A mount to mosey and a roaring ride.

Horse rampant.

"That'll be $423.64."

Barely registered.

Mind cloud.

Out one door

In another.

She laid back loose with the pull of a lever.

He lowered in and got his head clever.

No cops, no knocks.

Not this time.

You want a heavy tint when you get this much sunshine.

David lit a joint on the porch.

"You know, it's LA," took a drag, "it's easy to find a million 10s here, it's hard to find The One."

He continued, "So forever I'm like, fuck, how am I ever going to settle down? But I really feel it with you, Molly. We could grow old together . . . I mean hell, I'm already old, I can watch you rot I guess."

Cough-laugh.

She really did wonder about his heart, his lungs.

Even as she adored the beauty of both she worried for their longevity.

"You're not old, David."

He never went to the doctor.

Some men.

So stubborn.

"You wanna hear this record? Just came in the mail. Chilean psych-rock band, totally killer."

"Put it on."

He handed her the joint, scuttled inside.

She looked out over the canyon and felt of a piece with it.

Took its air in.

Cultic allure and fire seasons.

She heard the drums come on, and she started to dance.

"I mean, it's a little odd that you don't like me drinking and smoking, but you gave me perfume that smells like tobacco and booze."

Lee bristled.

"I mean, the tobacco note's definitely there, but I don't think it smells like booze at all, it smells like—"

"Lee it smells like a speakeasy in heaven."

"Well, I — . . . alright." He adjusted his collar. "So you like it then, right?"

"I love it."

"You and your suitors."

Sarah Jane on the phone.

"How will you ever pick?"

"Biggest bank account, fattest dick?"

Sarah Jane could be mean sometimes, taunting.

Molly was never sure how intentional it was.

"Well you know, David accepts me flaws and all, Lee wants perfection."

"Do you want perfection?"

"Well, I mean, I want to be held to some standards."

"Hell, I'd just like to be held."

"No one in your life these days?"

"It's cold up here Molly."

. . .

The line silenced.

. . .

"So they're both, like, older than you, right?"

"Yeah. Not, like, old-old but older."

"And the music guy, he's like, not so healthy?"

"I mean he looks great, but he eats like shit. He's eased off the drinking a bit . . ."

"Have you?"

Molly laughed.

"You know, you'll have to meet David sometime. I think you'd like him . . ."

That was the answer.

"I need to get down there sometime soon. It's been too long."

She wanted to masturbate but she had a headache.

And a phone filling with ignored texts.

Couldn't tell if she wanted to get off or just wanted to want to get off.

To nourish, to heal.

Whatever sex's appeal.

The restlessness was real.

Fidgeting in her seat.

She'd barely pulled herself out of bed that day.

Didn't want to trade warm sheets for noise and notifications.

Made her way to the sofa.

Watched an hour or two of manufactured emotion.

Cut through with pharmaceutical ads.

She couldn't remember the names of the characters.

But she could tell them apart by their hairstyles.

Eventually she'd have to eat.

Some imitation meal to cheat.

Something just to keep alive.

It's a feast for fun and a famine to survive.

She would bite her lip when she wanted it.

David knew that.

Lee did too.

Hell who couldn't tell?

You'd have to be an utter fool.

She didn't mean to be obvious.

But it got results.

You know the look when you see it.

We're all adults.

"I'm a little sore down there."

"Maybe we just have top shelf fun. Do you want your tits sucked on, madam?"

That horrible English accent.

What the fuck was that?

Could never figure out if it was real.

"Oh, we can just—"

She reached back and fingered his ass while he took her from behind.

"We're in this together, you and I."

His house was Spanish and romantic.

He was neither.

His name didn't matter.

He'd been the first man Molly'd met in L.A.

In this way.

Sex for play.

The expectation set.

In retrospect, she couldn't believe she'd fucked him.

She got worked up sometimes.

From not being able to trust herself.

Her memory.

From the drinking.

Holes.

Things that don't make sense.

Don't add up.

Time lost.

Or sped-up.

Condensed.

Playing tricks.

Mean tricks.

Dirty too.

"Soon enough you'll be turning twenty-nine for the tenth or eleventh time."

She wrote in the card for David.

Even though she knew it was more.

Thought to herself:

What's a little flattery on the killing floor?

The night had gone badly, and continued to do so.

"He's a lecher. I don't want you around him anymore."

"I can't exactly quit."

"You could open your own gallery."

She laughed, bitterness spilling out against her will.

"My own gallery . . ."

"You're good enough, Molly."

"Am I . . . enough?"

"You're good enough."

"Is that what you want? My name on the door? Me on display?"

"You—"

"Or . . ."

"I'm not some cat to rescue."

"I'm not exactly trying to be Dr. Sugar here."

"I'm a girl who works, not a working girl."

Laguna again.

He'd rented the same suite.

Trying to convince her to stay, again.

Again, again.

Again.

"Molly . . . this all feels . . . circuitous?"

"Got your heart racing?"

"A bit . . ."

She bit her lip.

She hadn't meant to.

"It's like we're going around in circles, sometimes."

"Circles can be nice."

"But you know what I mean . . ."

"I'm not sure. What are we gonna do? This, forever?"

"Would This, Forever be so bad?"

He smiled.

She returned it.

Like all good service.

"It wouldn't, no."

"There are much worse outcomes."

"Do you think of everything that way?"

"What way?"

"Risk aversion."

He stone smirked.

"Yes."

"I can't say that I'm surprised."

"Well, let me surprise you with this . . ."

Fuck.

Is he going to propose?

A gasp.

(internal)

"Got your nose."

He popped up from beneath the pillow with a lover's attack.

She playfully slapped back and laughed.

It's great sometimes to be stupid.

Jesus Christ, what the fuck is Lee doing on the Eastside?

Fuck.

Shit.

Think fast.

"UhIgottagotothebathroom" and she zipped off.

David was frowning at his phone anyway.

Molly prayed silently that the cafe didn't have a bathroom code.

"Shit, shit, shit."

Silent.

Subvocal.

Thoughts and heart racing.

She clutched the handle of the women's room, or — no, it's All-Gender, alright — and sighed graceful relief at its opening.

Lee'd been walking by on the sidewalk.

Why?

All out of his place in his sportcoat and slacks.

"Looks like the landlord showed up," she could imagine David riffing.

Taking the piss out of some perceived windbag.

Some square.

Some view from nowhere.

Some corporate stooge.

With plans to be a player.

God knows.

Say a tiny little prayer.

She gasped for breath again.

Took in the fluorescence of white tile.

Saw herself in the mirror deep in denial.

There's a knock at the door.

"In here."

That's a lie.

She's anywhere else.

It's clear.

The outer world fucked off for a while and she washed her face.

Thought to piss but she didn't have the taste.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Internal.

Silent.

He can't still be there.

He shouldn't be there at all . . .

Used to hate being called Molly.

Such a dull name.

She had thoughts.

Flights of fancy about exotic renamings.

Given the state of search engines these days, she was glad not to have done it.

She can disappear when she needs to.

Nobody needs to know about the landlord or the small claims court or the old party photos or any of it really.

Nothing.

She could get away.

Go away.

That's the real luxury.

"I just want to put my money where your mouth is."

He laughed.

"You think that's funny?"

"Yeah."

She shoved him onto the bed.

"You've got a fucked up sense of humor."

"I know. Isn't it great?"

Like a lot of gallerists it had been her own work she'd wanted to see on the walls.

But she'd better succeeded in selling the work of others.

Pointing out the strong suits of works.

Promising enduring value to investors and collectors.

"This shit's all rigged," she'd kvetch, once out of hissing distance of the artists and enablers. "Nothing to do with talent, all procurement and pimping."

"Molly, you never check your mail."

"Who gives a shit?"

"It's overflowing."

"It's never good news anyway."

"I don't know how you do it, sweetie."

Sarah Jane on the phone again.

"It's gotta be like split realities for you."

Molly heard her take a drag of a cigarette.

"I thought you'd quit smoking."

"I'm not smoking."

An easy lie.

"So when you gonna give up juggling hobby hubbies?"

"Ew."

Sarah Jane laughed smokily.

"Don't call them that. Please. And I can smell your Pall Mall through the phone, bitch."

"Sounds like you've got some decisions to make. Do you want to be a spinster or do you want SoulCycle?"

"That's terrible. God, stop."

He awoke in a dream.

In red flannel and blue denim.

Brown boots like all the woods' dirt.

Shirtsleeves rolled.

Fat forearms.

A hefty axe.

And a heaving chest.

Homeric and filled with song.

Raised the hatchet to the Tree of Life, said:

"Every real man wants to retire her!" Swung.

"He doesn't want her in some office or storefront!" Swung.

"Certainly not a god damn restaurant!" Swung.

"Or bar!" Swung.

"He doesn't want her . . ."

Teetering.

". . . answering . . ."

Teetering.

"to some . . ."

Wobbling.

". . . other . . ."

Wobbling.

". . . man.

There's always the market to meet.

Some new spin on the carousel.

Maybe meet a guy who's into feet.

Maybe you're into girls now.

Maybe they're into you.

Maybe you've gotten bored enough for a game or two.

The night's calling.

The summers draw long.

The shadows beckon.

Far far-flung.

"I don't want to be controlled."

"I don't want to control you."

"I'm not the way you want."

"I want you to be the way you want. I want you to be the best version of you."

"What's best?"

"What do you mean?"

"Best for who? Me? You?"

"Us, Molly."

And then it went wrong.

And then it was over.

Texts and phone calls.

Drank herself to spins.

Never took him for the type.

She'd never see Lee again.

Molly hadn't heard from her mother in years.

"Wow. You're an adult now."

Why was she calling?

"Yeah."

"A real adult. It's been so long . . ."

"Yeah. It has."

Why?

What now?

This can't be —

"Maggie's dead, Molly."

"What?"

"She's gone. Jim, too."

"What the hell? Was there an accident?"

"Well . . ."

Her mother coughed.

Decades of cigarettes.

Years of tar.

Old lungs heavy, offering:

"Look, this is all kind of . . . sensitive."

Molly grasped at a phone cord that wasn't there, wasn't going to be there, hadn't been there in a while, holding smooth glass to her cheek, listening intently.

The creaky voice came over the digital signal.

"Maggie was getting her . . . her chest done."

"What do you mean? Like she was in surgery?"

"Yeah . . . Plastic surgery."

Cough. Cough.

"Aunt Maggie was getting a boob job?"

"That's right . . ."

Molly was shocked.

Not by the procedure, but the failure.

Figured that would have been a solved problem by now . . .

"And Jim, Jim just didn't . . . didn't deal well, when she went. Do you understand, Molly?"

"I— . . . yeah, of course."

"Jim went after her."

"Jesus."

"They're together forever now, I guess."

A dark laugh.

A coalmine cough.

"Mom you need to be taking care of yourself."

"Daughter you do too."

Damn.

"Fair."

"Have got someone taking care of you?"

Molly paused.

She'd never really let her mother in on her love life.

They weren't close in that way, didn't chat like that.

"I'm taking care of myself just fine, Mom."

In the ensuing silence, Molly muted her phone, and shuffled in socks to the fridge.

Cracked a can of wine, white and sparkling.

New Year's again, I guess.

"Okay Molly."

Stern.

"Mom I—"

She'd forgotten to unmute, shuffled the phone at her neck as she pulled from the can, guzzled bubbles cascading.

"Fuck."

Set the can down, shuffled the phone again, dropped it.

"Fuck!"

Wasn't face-down, at least.

No new cracks today.

"Shit."

Picked it up, unmuted.

"Mom?"

"Yeah."

Still worked.

Thank god.

Can't be buying another of these fucking things.

"Sorry, I—"

"Are you drinking, honey?"

A resigned sigh.

"What do you—"

"Your father drank."

Fuck it.

Molly reached for the can and slugged.

"I'm doing fine, Mom."

The hint of a cluck.

"Well, listen. Are you okay to listen, honey?"

"Yeah . . ."

"Okay, well. Maggie and Jim didn't have kids."

"Right."

"So, as you're aware, Maggie was quite fond of you."

"Yeah."

"Jim . . . well, I don't know that Jim liked much of anyone," cough, "Certainly not me . . ."

"I think Uncle Jim liked me alright."

"Well, he must've . . . You get the house, Molly."

"What?"

She narrowly avoided dropping the phone again.

"The house in Newport, it's yours. It's paid off, too."

"What the fuck?" Molly mouthed to herself, silently.

"Uh . . . Uh . . . Uh . . ."

She was wordless, literally.

Light in the knees and head.

"Sorry, Mom, I feel . . . I wasn't expecting this."

"None of us were expecting any of this."

Molly inhaled the remaining wine in the can, and grabbed another.

Shamelessly, audibly, she cracked it open.

She was, after all, an adult now.

A homeowner, even.

Landed gentry.

"Do you think you're gonna keep it or you're gonna sell it?"

"Shit," out loud.

She didn't usually swear in front of her mother.

"I didn't even know I had it until a minute ago, I can't say, uh, I can't say I've put any thought into it?"

Vino down the hatch.

She wasn't sure if she was mourning or celebrating.

"Well, you've got some time to think about it. You know, all this stuff has to go through probate."

Swig.

"Yeah, probate."

Sure.

"Have you got an attorney, honey?"

"I've got a doctor and a music man," she thought.

"I, no, I— . . . I think I probably know people."

"Okay, well if you need any help."

"Thanks Mom."

"Your aunt Maggie loved you very much. I'm sorry to break the news to you, but somebody had to . . ."

"No, Mom, I — . . . I appreciate it."

Molly felt guilt at the terseness.

The impersonality of it all.

"Mom, you don't have to apologize for yourself."

Quiet.

A distant cough.

What sounded like soft crying, muffled.

Molly didn't imagine her mother was much for the mute function.

But she knew how to cover a handset the old way.

Pillowed and smothered.

Molly wondered how Jim had gone.

But she was too couth to inquire.

"I'm sorry I apologize so much."

You have got to be fucking kidding me.

"Listen, honey, I'm losing my voice . . . I ought to go."

"Okay, Mom."

"I'll be in touch in the next couple of days about the arrangements for everything, the service, what you need to do, all that."

"Okay."

"Honey, I'm sorry about your aunt."

"Mom—"

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

And it was done.

Full-tilt on the can of wine.

It was the last of her stash.

Given her new propertied status, she figured she might treat herself to more.

Maybe pour one out for Maggie, dead for want of bigger tits.

And one for Jim, who just couldn't deal with it.

Slid on flats, grabbed her trench, and made for the door.

More to sparkle waiting for her at the corner store.

"It felt so good to quit."

"Did you give two weeks?"

"Fuck no. I gave them six years, fuck two weeks."

Sarah Jane laughed.

"You're doing great sweetie."

"Thanks."

"You're really coming into your own."

"Yeah, right, thanks. You've got to come down. I mean, I've got the house now."

"What do you do there?"

"What do you mean?"

"Like, in Newport Beach. Do you like, go on boats?"

Molly's turn to laugh.

"Not yet, no. I've just been cleaning up the house a bit, getting some things fixed up. You know Maggie and Jim had a lot of, uh, custom work done on the home, and yeah, I'm glad they were able to set the place up for themselves, but, uh—"

"So wait are you going to stay there or sell it? Or rent it out?"

"I . . . don't know yet. I mean, I've still got my old place for two months."

"Are you still staying there?"

"Well, you know, half the time, most of the time, I never stayed there anyway."

"Right."

The huge jacuzzi.

The tiki bar.

The built-ins.

The sofa to die for.

And she had.

She'd died for her bolt-ons.

Maggie's big tits laid her low.

And now, Molly.

The niece in relative modesty.

A natural.

A hot commodity.

An inheritance of bottles.

There it was.

Scrawled in her own looping hand.

A recipe.

Taped inside a cabinet door.

Lined paper.

A ballpoint doodle of "Pirate Maggie."

Crazy in Bic.

A saggy hat, a patched eye, one big X marking the treasure — her chest.

→

Molly laughed, and made herself a promise.

One if by rapture, two if by comets.

"I need commitment."

"I need you to quit this."

"What?"

"This."

She held aloft an invisible globe.

His whole world in her hands.

And if she sets creation down.

He will never be again.

Back to the Action:

"David, I need you to not be here right now."

His knuckles to his own face.

Holding the scream.

Couldn't believe he was losing everything.

"Let me, just, I'll — . . ." dab of the jacket at the corner of the eye, "let me, I'll just, I'll just, I — . . ."

"David . . ."

"I— . . ."

"You're repeating yourself."

"I'll just I'll just I'll just go."

And he turned.

Jerked the doorknob much harder than he'd meant.

"I'm sorry. I, I, I — . . . didn't mean to."

"I know."

The softest closing of a door.

Molly stepped back.

Covered her own face in the foyer.

The sudden stillness.

The echoes of arguments.

David's parked car down the drive.

Down there.

As he fumbles with the keys.

"Hi."

A voice in the dark.

The click of low-heeled boots.

"Hi! I'm Sarah Jane. I know I'm early . . . Are you here for Molly's party?"

David smiled.

"I'm just the realtor."

He intoned, dead.

And drove off.

Inside, Molly traced a hand along the ridged deco bar cart.

Everything's set up for the housewarming.

Save yourself 💙