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Hollywood Nights
by Cesca Janece Waterfield He headed west since change did him no good. His daughters had formed some sort of club, he feared. But he didn't know, he didn't know. One was out in – where? Tears welling, he recounted an aggressive one-night-stand and shuddered: I didn't even know she was pregnant. With eyes that saw something far away, he said, Oh, to be a father, and then turned to her lovingly: You could raise it. In a bathroom of the market in the Valley, she exhaled in relief, tossed the stick in the trash, and with a book of Poe at her hip, crossed the street to see her friend Millie. All those books, history's design; she was wondrous! The fuckin Furies, was what he got from the row of unread Shakespeare lining his den. Bitches are bane of my guiltless fate, he whined over wine, and more. Shapeless sluts who have to fuck to feel good. He offered her a facsimile of his life before her: That's what destroys a home and the good man in it. She knew a couple good men. As he delighted in regaling her with stories of his life of sexual exploits, he trailed off, grinning: You don't want to know… Did one man know she'd never been faithful? Over drinks at the Irish bar, in bed, on walks, she asked about his lovers, curious by now at how many fuck ups he'd tolerated out of kindness, and his genuine desire to help. Trent Reznor will tell you. He shook his head with rarely seen vigor: She's no lay. I couldn't fuck her twice, you know what I mean. He leaned back to bear in mind another travesty that might finally quench his thirst. Did he want to know that the reason she relished these accounts was for the way they tickled forth memories of what she'd worn the night before for another lover? Someone would have to fuck you to be devoted to you, he told her once, over the phone. Indeed, she had agreed, and for the first time since having met him, sought out to test his premise. Before meeting her, he twinkled, it had been a pair of teen girls who, Accosted me! Just climbed in! He smiled at her – admiringly? – and toasted: To legends. Having claimed another piece of her demurity, he leaned in to kiss his girl. Indeed, she agreed, ceiling fan reflected in her raised glass: To a legend. Her hands were not innocent. She never said they were, or wished them to be. But along his offensive trail, her blue eyes had witnessed enough moments that sent other hands up in defense. He'd put them on his trail, had given them directions in more than one language. For a vacation, he granted permission to people who packed silently and stole no time. Time spends cheaply in objects and accusations hurled, fists swung, in lies; the way they spread wide open. Like a shapeless whore. What he hadn't counted on, as he went about his work, was for one of his lies to come to life, and then to look him in his face a final time. Before came that morning he woke up alone, she finally screamed, "No!" He knew right then. He was too far from home.
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