I Can't Talk To You With Your Dick in My Face: The Ember Files - Log 14
To read the previous log - Log 13 - click here.
Case Subject: Vega, Wyatt
Filed from: Palm Springs HQ
Classification: Emotional Volatility | Observer/Subject: Mara Luz Analysis
Date of Occurrence: December 8, 2023
The next day he’s up at 6 a.m.
I’ve always found it funny - nearly fifty years old, months on the road, half-drunk most nights - and he still pops out of bed at dawn ready to go.
He rolls out naked, scratches his ass, and wanders into the living room to pick his clothes off the floor. Throat-clearing, hocking up loogies, coughing. I hear the washer start. I brace myself, hoping he won’t fart on top of it all. That combo is my line. Farting and hacking phlegm? No. Though we’re at the age where a cough can turn into anything.
He knows my rule about farting. It’s negotiable if he makes it to 55.
We’ve been doing this a few years now. I still insist on some boundaries. One is the bathroom door stays shut when he’s in there - even just to pee. Which is rich coming from me. He’s seen every inch of me under stage lights, basically. It’s hypocrisy, sure. But at least I’m honest about it.
I yell after him: Add the Lysol! His show clothes need industrial strength. A few seconds later the shower turns on. I fall back asleep. When I wake up, he’s back in bed, hand on my left breast - the smaller one. His favorite.
Wyatt: Mara. Oooo, you’re naked. I like that.
Mara: Oh yeah? What do you wanna do while your clothes finish?
Wyatt: You know.
Mara: But I’m gross. I haven’t brushed my teeth or showered. I’m soaked in your sweat and cum.
Wyatt: That’s hot. Besides, I took a shower. Used your toothbrush. I’ll freshen you up with my immaculate tongue. (he pushes my legs apart)
Mara: (laughs) That’s so fucking cheesy. Oh. Oh my. Okay.
By the time the washer’s spin cycle stops, so have we.
He gets up to throw the clothes in the dryer, then comes back in, still naked.
Wyatt: So? What do you think about our plan?
Mara: Could you sit down? Your limp dick is in my face.
Wyatt: But you like my dick in your face.
Mara: Not when I’m trying to have a serious conversation.
He sits on the edge of the bed.
Wyatt: You never want to have a serious conversation. Well?
Mara: I need to think. It’s insane. It’ll ruin everything. My life. Yours.
Wyatt: So?
Mara: We’re middle-aged. We’re going to ‘live our truth’ now? No more lies? No pretending? Just announce to the world we’re adulterers?
He doesn’t flinch.
I keep going.
Mara: You talk about honesty, gratitude, connection. Why not say this to your wife?
Wyatt: It’s too late. It wouldn’t matter. We don’t love each other. We love what we had. But we can’t go back, and there’s no way forward. The emptiness? It’s so fucking lonely. I’m done.
He looks at me.
Wyatt: I came home for a short tour break a couple months ago. Walked in, no one there. Not her, not the kids, not even the dogs. And instead of missing them, I felt relieved. No tension, no arguments. I didn’t have to pretend.
Mara: Jesus.
Wyatt: She quit loving me long before I admitted it was over. She didn’t cling to scraps. I didn’t want to see it. I pretended. We did unforgivable shit to each other.
Mara: What kind of shit?
He holds my eyes.
Wyatt: We were fucked up for years. Drunk. High. Fighting. She’d hit me. I’d push her back. Hold her down. Half the time we didn’t even remember it until the next day - if we sobered up at all.
I go quiet. I think about my own blackout nights. The time I hit him in the mouth with that ZZ Top CD. I’m not exactly pure.
Mara: I want to talk more about this. But not now. What are you doing today?
Wyatt: I have a show in Atlanta tomorrow. But there’s a radio or podcast thing this afternoon. I need to check.
Mara: What if they ask about the divorce?
Wyatt: No one knows.
Mara: You sure? You checked her socials? She could be airing you out.
Wyatt: Somebody would’ve called me by now if she did. My mom’s watching.
He crawls back in bed. We fuck again.
When the dryer buzzes, he gets dressed. He leans over to kiss me goodbye.
Mara: What were you doing in Palm Springs last night? Where was the show?
Wyatt: No show. I had a meeting with my therapist.
Mara: Your therapist is here?
Wyatt: Usually LA or Zoom. But he was in Palm Springs yesterday.
Mara: Wait, you got wasted after seeing your therapist.
Wyatt: Mara, I know a lot of people here. I met up with some guys from one of my first bands. They still live here, in Indio.
Mara: No shit. I thought you had a show. Wait, what band?
Wyatt: (laughs) One that nobody remembers. And I want to keep it that way.
Mara: We’ll analyze that later. I won’t forget. You know, I have a new therapist here too. Newi-ish.
Wyatt: Because of me?
Mara: Please. I had enough problems before you ever showed up.
Wyatt: Fair. I like our new therapist. Although yesterday was weird. He wanted to talk about this asshole I kinda know from LA. This guy Rook. He went deep on why that guy’s fucked up. I don’t know why.
I sit up.
Mara: Rook? Rook Wetherell?
Wyatt: Yeah. You know him?
Mara: Yeah. I’ve known him since my undergrad days in Charleston.
Wyatt: That motherfucker went to college?
Mara: No. I met him in the bar scene. He bartended. Played in bands. Shitty bands.
Wyatt: Wait. Did you fuck him?
Mara: That’s your question? Jesus. Why did Moraine bring him up? Did he mention me?
Wyatt: Nope. Didn’t say anything about you. Does he know something?
Mara: God no. It’s… complicated.
Wyatt stands up.
Wyatt: Okay. I can’t do this right now. I have to drive to Georgia. I’ll call you from the road. We’re going to sort this out. Fucking Rook. Jesus. I am really pissed off right now. I gotta go. Love you or whatever.
He gives me a quick, brusque kiss on the cheek and storms out.
Later that morning I text Moraine.
Mara: We need to talk. Can we meet?
Moraine: Is this an emergency?
Mara: Can you do tomorrow? Are you in Palm Springs?
Moraine: I am. 10 a.m.?
Mara: Yeah.
I want him to explain why he talked to Wyatt about Rook.
I also want the lecture I need to drop Wyatt for good.
But if I’m honest? I know I’m going to go along with Wyatt’s plan in some form.
Call it a midlife crisis or recklessness. But I want it.
We’re all dead in a couple decades anyway. Why not? Plus, I gotta get to the bottom of this Rook/Wyatt thing.
To read the next log - Log 15 - click here.
