Chapter Ten
In Between
I stayed at the Empire that night, because I had too much crap to work through in my mind. I couldn’t risk going home and finding Simon in one of his moods. I couldn’t deal with his shit on top of mine.
I lay instead with W’s poetry on the pillow beside me.
I’d rather have the dream of you
With faint stars glowing
I’d rather have the want of you
The rich, elusive taunt of you
God, he never gave me enough. His snippets never made sense, never explained anything. What did this mean, that he didn’t want me? That he only wanted the “dream” of me? I didn’t know whether to be flattered or insulted. His poems never made me feel good, only confused.
Speaking of confused, why had I decided to stay here at the Empire, and sleep on this bed where W had done such horrible things to me?
But he hadn’t done them, not really. The Texas stranger had done them. Somehow the two of them had become separate in my head, which was fucked up, because they were the same person, and I should have been furious with that person. I should have stayed angry longer. The first time Simon hit me, I stayed angry for days, and then the rationalization started. Was I doing the same thing here? Rationalizing W’s behavior because I didn’t want to let him go?
But unlike Simon, W was in control that whole scene. He didn’t attack me with true intent, with malice to cause harm, so it didn’t count. When Simon attacked me, he did it to hurt me. When W attacked me, he used a condom and didn’t leave bruises. It wasn’t the same.
Was it? Fuck me. I didn’t know.
I was sore the next morning, my heart from emotion and my body from too much orgasming. Light streamed through the hotel curtains, and housekeeping tapped at the door. I got up and dragged home, and let myself into the loft. I heard voices from Simon’s studio, his voice and another girl’s. Someone was smoking.
Rachel.
Rachel was an old friend of Simon’s from Florida. She had a sultry voice and a model’s body, and rainbow-colored highlights on the tips of her dark hair. She chain-smoked in our loft and hung all over Simon at every opportunity because they were friends.
The door to the studio was half open. I peeked in, saw Simon with his brush and canvas, looking animated for once. Rachel was on the couch, sprawled on her back with a cigarette dangling from her fingers. She wasn’t wearing a shirt or bra, but that wasn’t unusual for Rachel, who thought the rules of the decency didn’t apply to her. Her father was some Miami billionaire so Rachel didn’t work, didn’t do anything that didn’t feel good to her.
Simon and I had argued many times about Rachel. I knew she was the one who had gotten him into drugs, and I hated her for it. He went to a few rich, artsy, hippie festivals with her, and all of a sudden, he was getting high because it made the art “better,” like it was some noble sacrifice he was making. Rachel told me to relax, that Simon wasn’t half as bad as some of the people she knew.
Was that supposed to make everything okay? Ugh, I hated her. During one of our arguments, I accused Simon of sleeping with her behind my back. He sneered at me. “One, you sleep with tons of guys. Two, there’s more to life than sex. I know that’s hard for you to understand, considering what you do for a living. And three, we grew up together. I mean, ugh. Incest. She’s like my fucking sister.”
But he wasn’t looking at her like a sister right now.
That smile of his used to be for me. That intent gaze, that expression of inspiration. I pushed the door open and stalked in. “Hey, Simon. Hey, Rachel.”
“Chere!” Simon exclaimed, like he was happy to see me. He was always happy with Rachel around. Rachel gave me a bitch look, and waved at me like that somehow erased the bitchiness.
“Look.” Simon gestured to the rainbow colored canvas before him. It reminded me of her hair. “What do you think? Rachel finally agreed to model for me.”
I used to model for you. I used to inspire you. Not to be nasty, but the pieces you painted of me sold for a lot of money. This one looked like a piece of carnival art. I supposed it was for his upcoming show, if it even happened. I had my doubts.
“It looks great,” I said with fake enthusiasm. I looked from the canvas to Rachel, and then back at the canvas. I never understood why he needed models, when nothing he created ever looked like any of those models. I never understood why he needed the drugs, when his own talent and imagination used to be enough.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” I said.
“Hey, where were you last night?” he called out when I was almost to the door.
I turned. “At the Empire Hotel. The client said I could stay if I wanted, and it had a nice view.”
Rachel tittered, even though I didn’t think I’d said anything amusing. I could have said more, like that I felt more relaxed when I stayed at a hotel. That the lack of clutter and cigarette smoke and color-vomit canvases helped me sleep better.
“I’m tired,” I said. “I’ll see you later.”
I went into our bedroom. The bed was still made. It was very possible that Simon and Rachel had been up all night, partying, club-crawling, dancing, and then coming home to make “art.” Our clothes were piling up in the corner. I needed to do laundry. Later. I’d face that later.
I took out W’s poetry instead, and searched the first couple of lines on my phone. Choice, by Angela Morgan, a little known American poet born in the late 19th century.
Her work was wistful, kind of sad. I smoothed out the paper, studying his writing, trying to remember the expression on his face when he put down the pen. Was he insinuating something about me by choosing this poem? Or him? Or neither of us?
Did I want “the want of him”? The “rich elusive taunt of him”? I was afraid I did. Our date was over but he still occupied far too many of my thoughts.
He’d said it was “a little bit of an apology,” but I didn’t see the apology. I pored over commentary about the poem, its theme of obsession and unrequited love, as if that might explain something, or help me understand him. It didn’t.
I wondered if he knew all these poems by heart, or if he only memorized snippets that were meaningful to him. I tried to picture W in love. In unrequited love. I tried to picture him sitting and memorizing poetry.
No. I couldn’t see it at all.