how long did your estuary run

Mona is in the kitchen when I get home, and so are more empty liquor bottles than she could have drank by herself. Must've had friends over; the glasses are lined with fruit punch and the sick-sweet rime that young girls leave behind. She knows she can't hide anything from me, so she doesn't try.

Two a.m and I'm out of my head, and I fancy a phone call to Ray -- "hello, I'd like to report underage drinking. My girlfriend."

"What are you laughing at?" Mona, standing in my kitchen in fishnets and a black nightgown that she thinks makes her look mature. She's got a bruise on her neck that I'm not so sure I gave her, but I don't give a fuck right now.

"You," I tell her. There's no Persephone here to clean up the kitchen, and if I think on that too much I'll start to wonder about Shannon, and so instead I take another dose.

When she comes up to stand near me, I'm looking down through the whitehaze at her black toenail polish through her stockings. When I don't kiss her, she takes the flask from me and sips on it herself. Suit yourself, Mona.

"Where were you?" She says. She sits up on my counter kind of like Phina used to do, and I go to the window so I don't have to look at her violating the space like that.

"I was with a woman," I tell her, and she knows I'm not serious because I can't say it without laughing just a little. It's not completely untrue, though, and she can tell that, too, and she's quiet.

"I invited Audrey and Cassandra to come and meet you," she says. "But you didn't come home, Daddy-O."

Like hell she did. I have a vague memory of those girls -- the underweight redhead with the fairisle sweaters who Mona bullies, and that diplomat's daughter, the transfer student. Saw them when I used to wait outside Dalton for Phina. I imagine Mona enjoyed being the queen bee, having a space to throw a party in, and the idea of meeting me with which she's trying to guilt me is manipulative. Mona uses me just like I use her, and probably I couldn't abide this arrangement if she didn't.

I briefly entertain the idea of Mona, Audrey and Cassandra drunk on vodka kool-aids in my house, but I'm too tired for a comment.

"I was with an old girlfriend," I say, which is not exactly a lie. Funny.

"You were not," she says. I don't answer.

"Was it Phin?"

"If it was, you'd be able to tell, wouldn't you?"

She doesn't know what to say, and she frowns. That funeral for Mimi is only a few days away. We are both thinking about it.

"Your cousin called," Mona reports, swaying a little on her feet. She looks at the dirty kitchen like she isn't sure whether she wants to clean up the glasses or smash them. "He left a message."

Sure enough, the light is blinking. What does the Vega want this time?

Beep.

Hey, you fucking Brande -- he's drunk -- are you still alive? Get your head out of the toilet and answer the phone, asshole. What are you doing over there? On reflection, I'm vaguely pleased that nosy Mona didn't pick up the phone and talk to him. That would have been an event.

Listen, I'm sick of you living in that empty apartment doing god knows what. I told your father I'd look after your ass, and you're doing fucking terrible.You're wasting -- oh, he's very drunk, pauses while his stomach settles -- wasting your fuckin' life over there, and it's not too much to ask for you to do a little bit for your family.

Why don't you come stay here for a while? Antoinette is out of town, promise --

Live at Vega's? Is he insane? Well. I consider the state of my kitchen and the fact that I am not about to rehabilitate its state of organization, and wouldn't it be nice if some young professional thing was going to clean it up?

Of course, he's not asking because I need him. Perish the thought. He's asking because he needs me. I'm not sure I could look him in the eye now, knowing what I think I know about Luciana.

But we'll see. It's worth thinking about. It's true I'm losing my mind in here, although I don't much mind.

"Are you going to leave me?" Says Mona in a small voice. I hadn't realized the room had fallen silent, that the message had cut off with some kind of get your ass over here, sister-fucker, and that she's staring at my back. I can feel it, and They can, and it's good they were able to be placated a little bit by the Tower because. Well. They want things, they always want things, and I am so, so tired. Again.

I feel sorry for her. For Mona Dahl, I mean. She's a bad girl, and she asks for the trouble she's in, but no one ever gets that way on their own. Reminds me of another woman I saw tonight. And she didn't pick up the phone; she didn't talk to Marius. Something that resembles contentment, as temporary and restless as it is in me, stirs from behind my sternum in Mona's direction like the halfhearted contraction of a black, bleak, tired muscle.

So I tell her, "Not quite yet."

--

How long, how long did your estuary run?
Did you call yourself a father?
Did you call yourself so dumb?

[frog eyes, new soft motherhood alliance]