Kissing Carrion

“Like Herson says: ‘It’s just . . . the way I am’.”

Beck shut the car door in my face. Then rolled the window down, just a crack—enough to be heard through. And replied: “Then that’s a pity, David. Because I always wanted to think you were something more.”

* * *

The Cyprians say Love, capital “L,” is whatever you make of it—is you, to the infinite. You outside of you, loving someone like you love yourself; more than, actually.

In my case, it’d have to be.

I wish you love, Detective.

Real love.

Love the way you are.

Love, my emotional brain tumor. Love, my habit, my jones. My uncontrollable urge. My will to power. Love, my unscratched itch—my addiction, with all the word entails:

Ecstasy, mania, withdrawal. My suicide in progress.

I couldn’t have love soft and sweet if I tried—I know, believe me, because I have. I really have.

And suffering Christ! Just look what happened then.

* * *

Valentine’s Day night, four years ago: Rang the doorbell twice, three times. Beck answered on four. Had his pyjamas on already, 1950s slippers like my old man used to wear—sitting around the house, drinking beer till he passed out. Before he ate his gun, and we found out his pension wouldn’t even cover our utility bills.

“David,” Beck said, squinting out at me through the screen—more puzzled than anything else. “It’s very late.”

Not cold, not then. Cold would come later.

With me just nodding, moronically. Panting, so hard I could barely shape the words:

“Back there, with Mrs. Silas—that made you pretty sick, huh? Not too moral, right?”

Gently: “You’re drunk, David. Go home and sleep it off.”

The way his lips moved as he said it—oh, my. Those devil lips that know so well the art of lying . . .

Singing in my head, my groin. Georgia above the belt. Blood below, hissing—pure red/black, just like in the Temple, washing up on an endless tide.

“I did it for you,” I told him, “like I always do. The stuff you won’t. The dirty work, to keep you clean. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

“Go home, David. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

His tongue, flickering—oh my, God damn.

And the words rising through me, voicing themselves for the very first time ever. The first, and worst, time.

“I love you, Beck. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

And did I see a little revulsion in his eyes, perhaps? A little bit of fear, even then? Surprise, at any rate.

Repeating, simply:

“Tomorrow.”

Already shutting the door, firmly, stopping just shy of an outright slam. I stuck my foot in the jamb; barely felt the impact, as it rebounded.