It was an evening that begun unremarkably, just like any other. I hadnt left my bungalow in days, inhaling information bout Ireland, piecing together some sort of quantum time map- determined to prove the ancient Egyptians were druids. The first Pharaoh was buried in County Meath, my grandfathers village. He was ripped off of his farm at age three by the British military. Forced to move. I am angry about information lost. My heartache, longing, at peak capacity, for more reasons than one. The hum drum of los angeles traffic lights coat sunset blvd in it's usual pharmaceutical haze. I want to avoid the internet tonight. Anointed with perfume, step out, dressed up like Sharon Tate (Pre Satanism). I want to incite a revolution but I have reservations for a girls dinner.
Behind the curtained alcove of the Chateau Marmont smoking section, I am cowering. My heart is hurting. I have made resolutions to let go. I have a lethal case of the “fuck its” again. Trying not to assign paramount meaning to the learned map of Los Angeles. Wanting to forget who I know.
He’s in the smoking section.He bears the kind of beating unpredictability of a man whose actions you cant quite predict. My favorite men are all like this, non-linear. Fast. He looks Irish. Blue eyes. Handsome in a John F. Kennedy kind of way.
I need a light and he whips out a zippo. He is skitzophrenically suave. He mentions something about saving the Ukraine and I am dismissive. I tell him the war is about biolabs, and he doesn’t know what hes talking about. He talks fast, quick, but quietly. Hes intense. Possibly crazy. Definitely Irish. I tell him the first pharoah was buried in Ireland. He looks crazy. He invites me up to room.
So naturally, I oblige.
Everything is neat. He has padlocked suitcases and is talking to me about things that only I know about. We discuss real estate inside the earth, solar flares, pole shifts. He tells me hes a billionaire. His family are involved in pharmaceuticals, blood trade, and agriculture. I tell him I think hes nuts. I sit on the balcony of the chateau, and he pulls me off of it by the waist. Tells me he doesn’t want me to fall.
He collects antiques, and hands me an aztec coil. Then old coins. Then a bottle of Dom Peringon. Opal stones. Sapphires. A rolex. We dance to Glen Campbell. Slow. I rest my head on his lap, his cowboy belt buckle cold on my forehead. He strokes my hair. He tells me I am intense, and powerful. He doesn’t know what he’s feeling. Says he hasn’t been able to relax since “he was kidnapped in Copenhagen” and describes himself as a “rogue agent”. He says my energy calms him down. Makes him feel at home. He likes me but he loves someone else. I say, thats fine, me too.
He sends me home with his driver and a rolex. I anticipate never seeing him again. Wonder if he is a spy. He calls me his spy wife still. And now we're engaged.