nobody happy. It’s Scandinavian art porn.
Meggie ignores the kid entirely. Just like always. These guys are interchangeable, really. There’s probably some website where she finds them. She may not want him, but she doesn’t want anyone else, either.
Meggie says, touching his arm, “You look a lot better.”
“I got a few hours,” he says.
“I know,” she says. “I checked in on you. Wanted to make sure you hadn’t run off.”
“Nowhere to go,” he says.
“Come on,” Meggie says. “Let’s get you something to eat.”
Ray doesn’t follow; lingers with his cigarette. Probably staring at their yoga-toned, well-enough-preserved celebrity butts.
Here’s the problem with this kid, the demon lover thinks. He sat in a theater when he was fifteen and watched me and Meggie done up in vampire makeup pretend-fucking on a New York subway car. The A train. Me biting Meggie’s breast, some suburban movie screen, her breast ten times bigger than his head. He probably masturbated a hundred times watching me bite you, Meggie. He watched us kiss. Felt something ache when we did. And that leaves out all the rest of this, whatever it is that you’re doing here with him and me. Imagine what this kid must feel now. The demon lover feels it, too. Love, he thinks. Because love isn’t just love. It’s all the other stuff, too.
He meets Irene, the fat, pretty medium who plays the straight man to Meggie. People named Sidra, Tom, Euan, who seem tobe in charge of the weird ghost gear. A videographer, Pilar. He’s almost positive he’s met her before. Maybe during his AA period? Really, why is that period more of a blur than the years he’s spent drunk or high? She’s in her thirties, has a sly smile, terrific legs, and a very big camera.
They demonstrate some of the equipment for the demon lover, let him try out something called a Trifield Meter. No ghosts here. Even ghosts have better places to be.
He assumes everyone he meets has seen his sex tape. Almost wishes someone would mention it. No one does.
There’s a rank breeze off the lake. Muck and death.
People eat and discuss the missing P.A.—the gofer—some Juliet person. Meggie says, “She’s a nice kid. Makes Whore-igami in her spare time and sells it on eBay.”
“She makes what?” the demon lover says.
“Whore-igami. Origami porn tableaux. Custom order stuff.”
“Of course,” the demon lover says. “Big money in that.”
She may have some kind of habit. Meggie mentions this. She may be in the habit of disappearing now and then.
Or she may be wherever all those nudists went. Imagine the ratings then. He doesn’t say this to Meggie.
Meggie says, “I’m happy to see you, Will. Even under the circumstances.”
“Are you?” says the demon lover, smiling, because he’s always smiling. They’re far enough away from the mikes and the cameras that he feels okay about saying this. Pilar, the videographer, is recording Irene, the medium, who is toasting marshmallows. Ray is watching, too. Is always somewhere nearby.
Something bites the demon lover’s thigh and he slaps at it.
He could reach out and touch Meggie’s face right now. Itwould be a different story on the camera than the one he and Meggie are telling each other. Or she would turn away and it would all be the same story again. He thinks he should have remembered this, all the ways they didn’t work when they were together. Like the joke about the two skunks. When Out is in, In is out. Like the wrong ends of two magnets.
“Of course I’m happy,” Meggie says. “And your timing is eerily good because I have to talk to you about something.”
“Shoot,” he says.
“It’s complicated,” she says. “How about later? After we’re done here?”
It’s almost full dark now. No moon. Someone has built up a very large fire. The blackened bungalows and the roofless hall melt into obscure and tidy shapes. Now you can imagine yourself back when it was all new, a long time ago.
Meggie ignores the kid entirely. Just like always. These guys are interchangeable, really. There’s probably some website where she finds them. She may not want him, but she doesn’t want anyone else, either.
Meggie says, touching his arm, “You look a lot better.”
“I got a few hours,” he says.
“I know,” she says. “I checked in on you. Wanted to make sure you hadn’t run off.”
“Nowhere to go,” he says.
“Come on,” Meggie says. “Let’s get you something to eat.”
Ray doesn’t follow; lingers with his cigarette. Probably staring at their yoga-toned, well-enough-preserved celebrity butts.
Here’s the problem with this kid, the demon lover thinks. He sat in a theater when he was fifteen and watched me and Meggie done up in vampire makeup pretend-fucking on a New York subway car. The A train. Me biting Meggie’s breast, some suburban movie screen, her breast ten times bigger than his head. He probably masturbated a hundred times watching me bite you, Meggie. He watched us kiss. Felt something ache when we did. And that leaves out all the rest of this, whatever it is that you’re doing here with him and me. Imagine what this kid must feel now. The demon lover feels it, too. Love, he thinks. Because love isn’t just love. It’s all the other stuff, too.
He meets Irene, the fat, pretty medium who plays the straight man to Meggie. People named Sidra, Tom, Euan, who seem tobe in charge of the weird ghost gear. A videographer, Pilar. He’s almost positive he’s met her before. Maybe during his AA period? Really, why is that period more of a blur than the years he’s spent drunk or high? She’s in her thirties, has a sly smile, terrific legs, and a very big camera.
They demonstrate some of the equipment for the demon lover, let him try out something called a Trifield Meter. No ghosts here. Even ghosts have better places to be.
He assumes everyone he meets has seen his sex tape. Almost wishes someone would mention it. No one does.
There’s a rank breeze off the lake. Muck and death.
People eat and discuss the missing P.A.—the gofer—some Juliet person. Meggie says, “She’s a nice kid. Makes Whore-igami in her spare time and sells it on eBay.”
“She makes what?” the demon lover says.
“Whore-igami. Origami porn tableaux. Custom order stuff.”
“Of course,” the demon lover says. “Big money in that.”
She may have some kind of habit. Meggie mentions this. She may be in the habit of disappearing now and then.
Or she may be wherever all those nudists went. Imagine the ratings then. He doesn’t say this to Meggie.
Meggie says, “I’m happy to see you, Will. Even under the circumstances.”
“Are you?” says the demon lover, smiling, because he’s always smiling. They’re far enough away from the mikes and the cameras that he feels okay about saying this. Pilar, the videographer, is recording Irene, the medium, who is toasting marshmallows. Ray is watching, too. Is always somewhere nearby.
Something bites the demon lover’s thigh and he slaps at it.
He could reach out and touch Meggie’s face right now. Itwould be a different story on the camera than the one he and Meggie are telling each other. Or she would turn away and it would all be the same story again. He thinks he should have remembered this, all the ways they didn’t work when they were together. Like the joke about the two skunks. When Out is in, In is out. Like the wrong ends of two magnets.
“Of course I’m happy,” Meggie says. “And your timing is eerily good because I have to talk to you about something.”
“Shoot,” he says.
“It’s complicated,” she says. “How about later? After we’re done here?”
It’s almost full dark now. No moon. Someone has built up a very large fire. The blackened bungalows and the roofless hall melt into obscure and tidy shapes. Now you can imagine yourself back when it was all new, a long time ago.
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