The Gemini: Emancipation

13 - Sin

November 1996

"You look happy. Are you happy?"

"Oh, very. I'm more than happy. There isn't a word yet to describe how I feel, I don't think. At least I haven't found one."

"How sweet." Oprah's admiring stare switches from Roger to Jody. "Is he always this poetic?"

"Mhm. By now I'm spoiled. It makes everyone else sound boring."

Oprah watches Roger's easy smirk turn into a bashful little smile at the compliment.

In a sideways sit, his body pulled forward against Jody. His intention was to kiss her cheek, but he forewent. Suddenly proper of the millions that are sure to watch. He settles for holding onto her hand.

"And you're as happy as he is?"

Glancing at her husband, Jody nods. "Absolutely. I couldn't ask for more."

"I don't know if you could." The host herself was smitten by it all. "There's been a lot of talk about the state of your marriage. We're all fascinated. But all of this is the complete opposite, right? You two seem to lead a perfect life."

"Well, nothing outside of heaven is perfect. But if you're looking..."

"Then this is it." Wearing a toothy smile that bordered phony schmooze, Oprah concluded Roger's statement.  "Okay, so what's next? What more is there?

"Life." He answers pleasantly.

The host dug for more.

"Alright, so the headline reads: The Artist has his wife, his family, and his Emancipation. And your fans—your admirers are wondering, because you're always changing. They say, where's he going next? You'll tell them...?"

"Only up."

December 15, 1996
2:32 a.m.

"I'm gonna have some tea, you want some?"

His question goes answerless, but he fills a second cup anyway. Stirring a teaspoon of sugar into his own, he complains.

"You're out of honey, you know that? Sugar's terrible on the complexion."

No response again, but it doesn't matter. He'll go on talking.

"How many scoops you want?"

"Fuck you."

Pausing his task, he counts on his fingers.

"Lets see, there's four letters to fuck... Y-o-u...that's three, so.... Seven?"

He's outraged for a moment until he shrugs. Dumping in the summed amount,

"Sounds more like diabetes to me but, hey. That's on you, fella."

Heels sound against the linoleum floor, a swaggered stride out of the kitchen. Bold clacks snuff out, quieted by the carpet. Into the living room, on the couch he sits, perching on its edge. The coffee table gets the tea cups. A light huff is had when he realizes an obvious error.

Toward the woman bound to a dining chair, he's sympathetic.

"How could I forget? Cherry, you'll forgive me? I didn't make you any." Going over to her, he takes a cup with him. "Here, take mine."

Red painted fingernails gained her the nickname. Her head shakes.

"Take it." His insistence turns into an icy demand, "Drink." Putting it to her lips, he helps her do so. "There. It's good isn't it"? he smiles.