Whip-it
It's the final phone conversation of Demi and Ashton's marriage and, wait, is that Rupert Murdoch listening in?
Topics: Valentine's Day Fiction, Entertainment News
Kutcher-Moore Residence, Los Angeles, Jan. 26
Demi Moore sits, distraught, on her living room floor. The house is in upheaval, every flat surface covered with boxes halfway packed, then abandoned; it seems her husband will never be done with moving out. A large bottle of Zyrtec is at her side. A dozen thin, high-strung dogs wander in and out of the room. Her cellphone rings.
“It’s me,” he says. “Don’t hang up.”
“What do you want?”
“I want the truth.”
Demi grabs one of the dogs with her free hand — it hardly struggles — and holds it closely, rubbing its silky fur against her cheek. How she loves these dogs: their dark, smooth coats, their effortlessly thin flanks. No matter how much she feeds them, she can still feel their ribs through their skin. Wonderful!
The dog nuzzles at her cardigan pocket, where she has taken to keeping treats for them: sinewy pieces of bison jerky, tiny sausage links, sliced-up organic hot dogs. The maid, shaking her head over the grease stains on her sweaters, suggested dog biscuits instead, but Demi has a horror of carbs. Besides, there is something strangely appealing about cutting up hot dogs. She holds out a nub, and the dog takes the treat delicately between its teeth.
“They say you’re holed up with whippets again.”
“Don’t you have some strippers to …” She sneezes three times, violently. “Some cameras to sell?”
“How many this time?”
“I don’t know,” she says, looking around the roomful of dogs. “One or two. Maybe six.”
“Look, I know haven’t exactly been a model of responsible behavior …”
“It’s true,” she says. “You have not. You also have some packing up still to do. Your free weights … your grooming products … your glassware.”
Demi hates the word “bong.”
“… but I think you might have a problem.”
Demi sets the phone in her lap and extends two thin, tawny arms. The dogs run to her, tumbling over each other just to lick her greasy fingers. She feels a pang in her chest. “When it’s just me and the whippets,” she murmurs, “there’s no more pain.”
“This is front-page stuff!”
Demi picks up her phone again and holds it to her ear. “What did you say?”
“I didn’t say anything,” says Ashton.
“MENTAL LASS, DENTAL GAS,” the voice mutters again. “Bugger it, I’ve dropped my Mont Blanc in the loo.”
“Someone with an Australian accent,” Demi says. “Is Hugh Jackman there with you?”
Belle Boggs is the author of the story collection "Mattaponi Queen," which won the Bakeless Prize and the Library of Virginia Award. More Belle Boggs.
Richard D. Allen is a poet and humorist. More Richard D. Allen.




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