Michael Hemmingson: Seven Women: An Erotic Private Investigation

“Are you sure?”

“Does it matter?”

“I guess not.”

“You haven’t been seeing him?” I ask.

“I see him around,” she says, “but I haven’t been sleeping with him if that’s what you mean.”

“Are you sleeping with anyone now?”

Pause.

Probably a bad question.

She says, “I ended a relationship two months ago. It wasn’t much of a relationship, though. What about you?” she asks cautiously.

“Nothing worth talking about,” I say.

“Will you start something with Sheila?” she asks.

There’s that kind of silence you just loathe.

“I’m not stupid or blind,” Tasha says, “I could see what was going on between you two. The looks. It started from the beginning, when you first sat down. Sheila is a man-chaser; she always has been. I could tell you some stories about her, but I won’t. Maybe she’ll tell you them herself. You can’t deny this was happening, and I’m sure I wasn’t the only one to notice. The two of you disappeared from the dance floor.”

“There’s nothing between us,” I say. This is no lie. I know it now. Despite what has gone on with Sheila and myself both in person and on the phone, I have no desire to have further contact with her. I would rather touch my ex-wife.

“There could be,” she says, “if you want it.”

“Maybe I don’t want it.”

“She’s pretty, and energetic.”

“Do you think that’s what I want?”

“What,” Tasha says, “do you want?”

She asked me the same question that night with Veronica. We were drunk and high and on the bed; I don’t know how it started, but it did. I think it began as a joke, maybe I started it, said something like, “Why don’t we have a threesome?” and the next thing I knew we were in bed, kissing and pulling at each other’s clothes. “What do you want?” Tasha asked; I only knew, that moment, that I wanted them both. “I want you,” Veronica told Tasha and Tasha became numb. I can still see the look on my ex-wife’s face, see it now as I hear her voice.

“I want a lot of things,” I say.

“I want a few things that I’ve lost,” Tasha says. “I’m happy with my life, but there are things missing. Things that used to be there. I want them back.”

“Seeing you tonight,” she says, “made me think of those things. I haven’t been able to sleep. I feel strange. Sad. I know this is probably the wrong thing to say, Leonard, but I miss you — sometimes.”

I say, “I do, too.”

“Please don’t misunderstand me.”

“I’m not.”

“You don’t even know what I’m talking about.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No,” she says, “you don’t.”

“Are we arguing?” I ask.

“No,” she says, “I don’t think so.”

“We used to have some good arguments.”

“Yes,” she says. “Constructive ones, no violence or anger, just a good butting of the heads.”

“Those were good buttings.”

“That’s something I miss,” she says, “but I also miss our friendship. We were lovers, we were married, but we were also friends. Weren’t we? I seem to remember it that way.”

“Yes,” I say, “we were.”

“Why did things have to change? Why did that have to happen with Veronica?”

“It just happened,” I say.

“I don’t feel as distant from it as I’d like to,” Tasha says. “I can still feel…all those mixed feelings, and they scare me. But I miss her, too. I miss Veronica because she was a friend, a good friend, and she was always there, she cared for us and we cared for her and—”

“And maybe that’s why it happened,” I say.

“Sometimes I think I overreacted,” she says, “but also, I don’t think I did. I was being me. I should’ve stopped it — stopped us — as it happened, I should’ve done something, but I let it go on and I felt so dirty afterwards, and I couldn’t look at you the same, I couldn’t feel for you the same, I couldn’t do it anymore.”

“And you slept with Slater,” I say.

“Once.”

“Once,” I say.

“Like you slept with Veronica again.”

“And then she went away,” I say, “like they all go away.”

“I miss her,” she says.

“I know.”

“And I,” Tasha says, “miss you, too.”

I listen to her breath.

“What are you doing?” I ask. “Right now?”

“I’m looking in my fridge. Do you know what I have? I have some vodka Jell-o.”

“You still make that?” I remember the taste of it.

“I still make it. I have a lot of it here.”

“Well,” I say, “sounds like a good time to snack.”

She says, “But how much vodka Jell-O can a girl eat?”

I laugh.

“You bastard,” she says. “Why did you have to be with us there tonight? Do you think I need this?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry! You always say that! There’s nothing to be sorry about! But you’re still a bastard!”

“Yes,” I say. “I am.”

“You don’t need to agree with me.”

“I’d like to hold you right now,” I tell her. “You’re crying and I’d like to hold you so you could cry on me.”

“That sounds nice,” she says.

“It would feel right.”

Breathing.

“What would you do,” I ask, “if I came over there right now? If I knocked on your door? Would you answer it?”

“Of course.”

“Would you let me in?”

“I might.”

“Yes or no.”

“I wouldn’t let you stand outside in the cold,” she says. “I’m not a cruel person.”

“I might just come over right now,” I say. “I just might.”

“Don’t.”

“I’d regret it if I didn’t.”

“Leonard.”

“Yes.”

“Let me come over there,” she says. “I’ll come over there. I’ll come to you. That’d be better.”

“Will you?”

“I called,” she says.

“Will you let me hold you?”

“I want to be held,” she says. “But if I knock on your door, will you answer?”

“Yes.”

“Will you let me in?”

“Yes.”

“Can I cry on you?”

“You can cry with me.”

She says my name and hangs up; and I look at the door to my apartment knowing she won’t come over, she won’t knock, and I won’t let her in.

Michael Hemmingson writes books in every possible genre he can: literary, western, SF, horror, noir, autobiography, erotica, narrative journalism, gonzo journalism, cultural anthropology, critical theory, critifiction, ethnography, and many other modes of academia including post-postmodern and post-colonial treatises. And private eye yarns. And film and TV studies. And smut. He also writes plays and screenplays. He has two independent feature films out: The Watermelon (LightSong Films) and Stations (Hemlene Entertainment). He has produced, directed, and written plays in San Diego and Los Angeles for the Fritz Theater and The Alien Stage Project. He lives in southern California, where the dead and the unborn visit him nightly as his two cats (Worf and Poe) observe with indifferent, feline curiosity.