Petra was one of those girls who didn’t even know she was flirting with your boyfriend while she was flirting with your boyfriend. It was sort of delicious to watch her if you weren’t on the shit end of it all. She was mostly composed of sex and casual advances. When she took a sip of her beer, for instance, she licked her lips like the gods’ own ambrosia had dripped on them. And when she had to think about something she bit her goddamn bottom lip and eye-fucked the air in front of her. This was her norm. I imagined she grew up with a slut for a mother and a completely absent father, and this was the only way she knew how to talk to men. I was wedged in-between her and David, but sometimes they talked around me because artists had so much in common. When she spoke, her pillow lips moved sensually and in rhythm with her doe-eyed blinking.

Ferdinand, who was sitting across from me and next to her friend, Beatriz, was watching her with just as much rapt attention as I was. It was hard not to, honestly. If I were a guy I would have had a boner. Brick arrived ten minutes after us with twin sisters in tow. And then the LA couple arrived, their LA-ness shining off of them so hard I wished I’d brought my sunglasses. The wife was wearing neon pink pants. Everything else was monogrammed in Louis Vuitton. The big shot music guy was wearing tan chinos and had a lot of chest hair peeking through his white button-down. Not the nice kind that David had, the unruly kind that needed a trim and a good conditioner. We all crowded into a booth and the big shot ordered drinks all around. I rubbed David’s dick under the table to distract him from Petra, while the guy’s wife talked about their recent vacation to Italy. None of us had been to Italy so we all nodded and sipped, nodded and sipped. Finally the boys started talking shop and Petra and I took each other in.

“So, how long have you and David been together?” she asked.

I translated her question to: how easy would it be for me to steal your boyfriend?

“Two years,” I said.

“That’s a long time.”

“It feels more like two months.” I nodded. “But that’s how it is when you have a good thing, yeah?”

She looked away and took a sip of her drink. “I wouldn’t know.”

Oh yeah. A breakup. I remembered the day in the tea shop when she spilled her guts to a British stranger.

“How have you been doing with that?”

She shrugged.

“Do you and David live together?”

“Practically,” I said. “Though we keep our separate places.”

She tilted her head to the side. “Funny, two years together and you still haven’t moved in.”

“People don’t need to live together to be together,” I said. “We like our space.”

She smiled. It was a condescending smile, not sweet or friendly. I spoke girl like a fucking boss, you know?

“When I’m in love I can’t stand to be apart from the person. He’s like a drug. Pure addiction.” She looked up at the ceiling like she was having an orgasm and lightly touched her neck. I wondered what it was like to be that kind of addicted to a human being. I looked over at David who was watching Petra with a glazed look in his eyes. I removed my hand from his crotch, annoyed.

David gave me a disappointed look and turned back to Mr. LA.

“It must be a whole thing to date a musician,” she said, softly. “Being on the other end of all that passion and creativity. Being someone’s muse.”

My eyes needed to roll, they asked to roll, but I kept them focused on Petra. Steady, girls. I wanted to tell her that I’d evaluated her and knew what ran through her psychological veins.

You want to be someone’s what-if, I told her in my mind. Be beautiful enough and important enough to inspire someone who had actual talent. It was more of a glamorous job than being the artist.

“I see him as David,” I told her. “The artist is part of the person, not the total sum of them.”

Petra looked perplexed. “You must not be an artist.” She smiled faintly.

She was playing games with me, trying to make me think I wasn’t right for him. I was heated, fidgety in my anger. The LA couple was sliding out of the booth, bidding us farewell. I moved my sharp response away from her and said a mechanical goodbye. Petra’s words were ringing in my ears. I wasn’t the angry type. It took a bit to rile me up—get under my skin— but her flippant insinuation that I don’t understand him pricked a rather large nerve. David put his arm around my waist, but I was stiff and uncomfortable as I watched the LA couple walk toward the doors. I was so distracted I hadn’t even learned their names.

“Do you want to stay for another drink or go to my place so I can fuck you?” he asked, quietly.

I looked over my shoulder, at Petra. She was staring at us, and I was sure she’d heard him. I decided to make the most of it.

“Let’s go fuck,” I said and then kissed his neck.

I could see the goose bumps erupt across his skin. We said goodbye and slid from our places at the table. When we walked out his arm was still firmly positioned around me.

When we got to his place I settled myself on the sofa while he went to the kitchen. When he came back he was carrying a bottle of champagne and two glasses.

“What are we celebrating?” I asked.

“Our two-year anniversary.”

I felt myself flush with embarrassment. “Oh, you heard that, did you?”

“Well, I was sitting right next to you.”

“Supposed to be talking to your fancy LA producers, not eavesdropping!” I laughed.

He set the champagne and glasses on the floor and sat down next to me.

“She was showing a little too much interest in you. I needed to set her straight.”

“With a lie?” He was smiling which sort of lightened the situation, but I was still annoyed at being called out.

“I figured she might avert her eyes if she knew we were two years deep,” I said, plucking on a string that was hanging from my shirt.

David pulled me onto his lap so that I was straddling him.

“What did you say about deep?”

His voice was gruff, it made me soft and pliable. I pressed my forehead against his and moved my hips so that I was grinding against him. David moaned into my neck and grabbed my waist to help.

“You aren’t attracted to her, are you?” I asked.

“Who, Yara? Why are you asking me this right now?”

I stopped moving and his eyes snapped open.

“Petra,” I said. “The Suicide Girl.”

He groaned. “I’m attracted to you.”

I moved a little and he perked up like he was in the clear.

“And who else?”

He stood up, lifting me with him and started walking toward the bedroom. “I have it bad for Courtney Love…”

I pushed away from his chest and tried to wriggle out of his arms.

“That’s bloody foul,” I said.

“Just kidding, English! Seriously. You’re the one who brought up Suicide Girls.”

I decided to let it go. For now, because he was laying me down on the bed and kissing my thighs.