Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 79250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
“I just want you to be happy,” I said. “If the art doesn’t work out, you can do something else.”
“It’s got to work out. It worked before. I’m going to make a comeback. Trends come and go, but real talent never goes out of style.”
I stroked his hair. It felt greasy. He didn’t smell the way he used to, all fresh and masculine. He smelled stale. “I want you to get better,” I said softly. I hoped he was too down at the moment to fly into a rage.
He didn’t. He started crying again instead. “I’m sorry I’m like this,” he murmured against my neck. “Addiction is really hard when you have children. I feel like I’m letting them down.”
“Simon,” I said wearily. “We don’t have children.”
“My paintings are my children. They’re suffering because I don’t have my shit together. And then I feel bad, and I do more drugs because I’m so tired of feeling bad.”
“I know.”
“I’m going to die pretty soon,” he said, clutching at me.
“No. Don’t say that.”
“I’ll die if I can’t beat this. I don’t want to die, Chere. I went to a meeting. I wanted to stay sober and I went to a meeting but I found out Baxter died.” Baxter, one of his art world friends. “I couldn’t believe it,” he said. “I just talked to him last week.”
“You have to stop using drugs, or you’ll end up like Baxter. You have to keep going to meetings, and get sober.”
“I’m trying!”
There was the rage. I held him tighter, trying to head it off. “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it right now.”
“I’m afraid.” He wrapped his long, paint-stained fingers in my sleeve, turned around and gave me a clumsy embrace, a kiss. “Don’t leave me. Please, I’ll change. Please help me.”
“I will. I’ll help.”
“Don’t leave me. Don’t go away. I needed you tonight and you weren’t here.”
I was still angry about the money, the money he probably used to get high like this, but I felt guilty too. What was worse? Stealing, or cheating on your partner? I held him in my arms and rocked him, and rested my cheek against his. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. I’m sorry I was out with someone else.
Even if that someone else was nicer, and better adjusted, and richer than Simon, in the end, that someone else hadn’t wanted me. That someone else walked out on me without saying goodbye because I was just that horrible in his eyes.
But Simon wanted me, and Simon accepted me. All these fucked up things that were happening to me—they were the universe’s way of punishing me for making plans to desert Simon. I decided I wasn’t going to let W, or Tony, or anyone mess me up like this again.
The Standard Session
I tried to pull my shit together when W scheduled a session for that weekend. He told Henry he wanted to meet me at The Standard, a hotel in the Meatpacking District known for its floor-to-ceiling windows and unobstructed views.
Voyeurs congregated outside at night, to watch the exhibitionists have sex with the curtains thrown open and the lights on. I hoped that wasn’t what W had in mind. The Standard was for people who wanted to be seen, and I wasn’t in the right frame of mind for exposure. I wasn’t in the right frame of mind for W and his shenanigans either, but a job was a job.
And I was a whore, as he was so fond of saying. So I straightened my dress—nothing fancy, I was done dressing up for him—and knocked on the door.
He opened it and motioned me in. He looked handsomely businesslike, in summer slacks and a button up, with a light blue tie. He didn’t look irritated like last time, and I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
“Take off your clothes,” he said by way of greeting. “Take off everything and sit on the bed.”
I stripped and sat where he indicated. It was seven in the evening, our usual meeting time, and summer sun still streamed in the windows. I felt like I was under a spotlight, but at least it was too bright for anyone to be peeping in from outside.
“How have you been?” he asked, peering down at me.
“All right.”
He handed over a paper. A clean STD test, with all his identifying information redacted, as promised. Stupid, so stupid. I shrugged. “Fine. Oral only, though.”
His eyes narrowed as he studied me. When I ducked my chin, he raised it again and scrutinized me in the evening light. His voice, when he spoke, was low and even. “What happened to you?”
I hesitated a second too long. “Nothing happened to me.”
His fingers tightened on my chin. “You look guilty. You look beaten.” His eyes moved over my body, but all the bruises were on the inside. “What happened to you?” he said, giving my face a little shake. “What the fuck did he do to you?”