Hemlock grove brian mcgreevy(english)

She lit a cigarette. The motion light went out. The cherry of her cigarette glowed in the tears on her cheeks.

“Liv,” he said. He had not referred to her by this glaring homophone of a diminutive in a very long time.

“Liv Liv Liv,” he said. * * * That night after midnight Godfrey’s phone rang. He said “Hello” and then “Oh for God’s—” and then “No no, I’m on my way.” He hung up and turned to Marie and began his cover but did not bother to finish; it was beyond redundant. Her impassivity over his leaving their bed inspired in him the morbid impulse to oversell his desire to return to it. He hovered over her, rubbing her arm, and said he would be back as soon as he could. She expressed no need for this to be any truer than it was.

Vindicated, he drove for the second time that day to Godfrey House and climbed into another bed and afterward engaged in an activity with Olivia they had not done in as many years as it had been since he called her by her pet name. They slept together. A phrase he had always failed to understand as a euphemism for fucking as though fucking were of intrinsically greater consequence.

Some hours later he woke suddenly, an animal confusion over being in the wrong bed. He was alone now in the bed, and having regained his orientation looked up to find her sitting at the bay window. She was nude and one knee was drawn up and the whisper of cigarette smoke was over her head. Lost in her own thoughts. Her own heartbreak for a world where these things happen to our children and there’s nothing we can do about it. * * * Peter and Letha were eating lunch in the cafeteria and he felt it coming. He detected a kind of nervous energy in her, a distinctively female tension that when released would be no good for anyone. He felt it in his Swadisthana. A week had gone by. Roman was still under and Peter had made no headway in the investigation. He had done nothing at all; he knew the fight that was coming but did not know what new and inspired ways things could get fucked if he continued trying to get around it. For now the only thing was to take things as they came and avoid getting into any more grief-inducing scenarios. For now he was totally set on those. But the way Letha was worrying her yogurt it was clear that whatever was on her mind would soon be on his.

“Wow, do your earrings match your purse?” said Peter. As a rule he kept observations about fashion decisions women had made in reserve for diversionary purposes.

“I want you to come to dinner at my house,” she said.

Peter was quiet.

“It would be kind of a big deal for them,” she said. “It … would be kind of a big deal for me.”

Peter told his mind’s eye to picture the way the sun falls like honey on the grass in autumn and a low stream passing over round stones and the first angel’s-hair sliver of the new moon. Make “this” a lot easier. So we’re a “this” now. As if that wasn’t the exact kind of talk that led to boyfriend and commitment and other words he was allergic to. Girls. The second you set up a perfectly reasonable boundary is the second they’re shopping for bulldozers. Ever the foremost of ironies that men are considered the hunters of the species.

She looked at him, expecting. Expecting the ten million things that girls get it in their heads to expect.

Obviously he was letting things come too far. Obviously she was hard of hearing in that way they get when you say “I need my space” and they hear wedding bells. He knew how to handle this. As Nicolae had said: nine out of ten times a woman is giving you an ache in the belly it can be easily solved by taking