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HERE, PUSSY, PUSSY
LEVI
TWO DAYS LATER, THE paperwork for the house has been signed sealed and delivered, and I’m the proud owner of a shitty run-down chateau just outside the tiny village of La Colle-sur-Loup—which Rousseau informed me is in the French Riviera.
I’m also now the owner of a mangy mutt who answers to the original and incredibly well-thought-out name of Dog. I walk the halls of my new house half drunk and all heartbroken. I venture into every room, to listen to its secrets, but they have none. They’re as empty as I am inside. The only furniture remains in the room I slept in the first night, the master in the crumbling west wing, the ballroom upstairs, and the living and dining areas.
I walk into the room I first occupied. The pale blue silk reminds me of fairy tales. Despite the dust, it’s fit for a motherfucking princess. I flop down on the bed and stare at the ceiling. It’s not as ornate as mine, which makes me wonder why I left my room at all. Oh yeah, I ran out of booze. I climb to my feet and prepare to stagger downstairs in search of more wine, but the moonlight from the window bounces off a small white card on the nightstand and I reach for it.
I squint in the half-light, trying to read the golden text written there. Brielle Kagawa. What the fuck kind of name is that? Fucking Angry French Girl. I trace my fingers over the welts on my forearm left by her bow. Goddam could she play. Cellists had never been my thing. They’d just always seemed pompous and arrogant, as if they were looking down their noses at the rest of us. They played opera houses, and music halls, and afterward sipped their French champagne as they talked about Debussy and Straus.
But this woman, this woman had struck every nerve in my body with a single slide of her bow across the strings. It was her notes, and the pure poetry of her music that flayed open my heart at the wedding, and I needed more.
I love music. I live and breathe it, but I’m only connected to it on a molecular level when I’m the one playing the instrument. When I’m simply a spectator, I don’t feel it. Not like I do when I play, not like when she played. And I broke it. Such beautiful music, and I fucked it all up. I need to fix it. I need to send her another instrument.
“I need another drink,” I declare to the empty room, and tuck the card into my hand because I’m not wearing any clothing. I walk down the spiralling staircase in the dark, but I’m not worried about tripping over anything. There isn’t any furniture to trip over. The house is as empty as my fucking soul.
Heading to the kitchen, I stumble around until I locate the refrigerator. I’m looking for booze, but I find some of that French cheese that Margaux’s been feeding me since I arrived, instead. It’s creamy and melts in your mouth, so different from the brie we get back home in Australia. I pull out a wheel and take a huge bite. Its bitter rind rolls around my tongue, the creamy centre glues up my mouth, and pastes itself to my teeth and gums like wet cement. It takes a fuckload of time to chew, and even longer to swallow.
Afterward, I’m left with a waxy coating, so I grab the open bottle of wine off the bench and pull out the cork, guzzling it down. It’s fucking delicious. Thank you, France. I swish it all around my mouth and swallow hard. Then I take several bigger gulps and set the bottle down on the counter. I stare at the card that I somehow haven’t lost in the hall between here and the upstairs bedroom. The fine gold typeface glints in the moonlight. I turn it over in my hands and take another bite out of the brie. Huh. I’m eating brie while holding Brie’s card. Maybe if I call her up, I can really be eating Brie. That’s exactly what I need. Some mindless, dirty fucking. Something to erase the sting of these bullshit feelings I have for my bandmate’s new wife.
I need pussy.
Lots of fucking pussy.
Meow.
But first, I need more wine, and some crackers to go with this cheese. Some coke would be nice too, but I doubt I’ll be imbibing in little white lines any time soon while I’m stuck here in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere France.
I search the bench for crackers, but Margaux’s too goddamn clean for that shit. They’ll likely be tucked away somewhere in a pantry bigger than my apartment back in Sydney. So I decide to forgo the crispbreads and instead just finish off this huge hunk of cheese. What I do find on my way to the dining table is the phone. I stare at it in its cradle, glance back at the card on the counter, swig the wine, bite off a little more cheese and then pick it up.