Lovely Flawed

by Brian Barton

  “How’d you like that big piece of cake you got last night?” he whispers in my ear.

  “It was too small for me,” I say. “I need to find another dessert place on Bleecker.” I smile at him and squeeze him gently in my hand.

  He holds me for a moment, then untangles himself, still at full-mast. He fishes one of the larger cigarette butts out of the ashtray, props his head on a pillow, and lights up.

  “What do you know about China?” I ask, putting my head on his chest. I caress his hairy stomach, doing small circles with my hand.

  Tony exhales through his nose. “Let’s see. Mao, the Great Leader. They speak Chinese. A billion people and a big wall. They hate democracy, censor the Internet, and execute dissidents.” He takes another drag on his butt. “Did I miss anything, baby?”

  “Come on.”

  “Okay. Let me try again,” he says. He straightens himself on the pillow. “China cyber-attacks U.S. military and industrial targets, probing for weaknesses and data. You’re blackmailing our politicians and captains of industry with the largest espionage effort since the Cold War. When you’re not attacking our shit, blackmailing, or spying, you’re counterfeiting our luxury goods. Your cheap knock-offs kill the market for our own brands, devaluing our industrial output. You own most of the real estate in New York City, Miami, and L.A. Plus, you control 90% of our debt-ridden economy with your gigantic GDP. And you’re poisoning our children with your cheap toys soaked in carcinogens.” He pauses. “How’d I do?”

  “Screw you, Tony.”

  “Oh, and China has never produced a great rock ‘n’ roll band.”

  “That’s what you think?”

  “Just kidding. There’s probably a great guitarist somewhere on the rough streets of Lijiang.”

  “Try again. This time, with less asshole.”

  He pauses, sucking the remaining nicotine from his clinch. He crushes the stub in the ashtray. “China. China. Let’s see. There’s In the Mood for Love by Wan Kar Wei. I’d do anything to watch Maggie Cheung walk down a street in a cheongsam searching for noodles. But, that’s Hong Kong, currently a Special Administrative Region of the mainland. Or Tang Wei. Jesus Christ. I’d lock her up at home and never let her out.”

  “Your Asian fetish is beyond pathetic, you know that?”

  “Why thank you, Li Hua. Dozens of women served.” Tony smiles and taps my nose with his finger.

  “You need a cold shower, mister. Speaking of showers, that’s where I’m headed.” I get up and head to the bathroom.

  The water soothes me. As it hits my skin, everything turns beautiful. Happy images rush into my head, painting colors on the windows behind my eyes. Sunshine. Beaches. Playing music. Laughing with Tony. Eating cake. Being naked with him. I scrub my arms and wonder what it would be like to be with him long-term. To have a future with him. I think about his bad behavior. The hookups. The lies. The profanity. Could we ever have a future? There’s just no changing him. He knows who he is. I like that he doesn’t mince words. He says what he thinks. But, could he give me what I need? What if he can’t commit? Would he ever be true?

  The minutes float by and my beauty ritual is almost over. I towel off and hear playing coming from the other room. I throw a towel on my head and one on my torso and walk out to investigate. Tony is sitting in his boxer-briefs playing Chopin’s Nocturne No. 20 in C-sharp Minor, op. posth. It’s a soul-melting piece originally written for piano.

  I’ve always hated the beginning of the piece because it’s too melancholy. People call it sad, but I think it’s more rhapsodic. But, if you can stomach it and wait a bit, it gets really good. Around bar 21, it catches its breath, becoming ethereal. That’s when you can tell if the person playing it is feeling it.

  As I watched Tony, I felt like I was learning more about him. More than I could in conversation. I know that sounds odd, but music tells you so much about the person playing it. As the notes filled my apartment, I felt the depth of Tony’s emotions. I had no idea he was so sensitive, so vulnerable. With each bar, I knew him more. I understood his thoughts as they were carried by the melody and delivered to me through the sound holes and strings. I knew more about him in those short minutes than I knew about people I’d known my whole life. His playing answered my every question.

  “Brava,” I say, clapping, as he plays the final note.

  “Consider yourself wooed,” he says, turning around and eyeing me.

  I move over to him and he puts his Strad down on my shelf. I knock him over so we can cuddle horizontally. “You slay me, you know that?” I say.

  “Happy to hear it.”

  “Okay, smarty pants, Let’s talk about me for a second. What do you know about Taiwan?”

  “Taiwan. Taiwan,” Tony muses. “Okay. An island nation of twenty-six million, give or take a person or two. A fiercely independent people who have fought a long battle for independence from the mainland. A unitary, semi-presidential constitutional republic. Tropical climate. Previously, an agrarian society. Nowadays, agriculture takes a back seat to technology. Pharma and biotech sectors hold economic promise but are currently nascent. Plus, lots of cute college girls.”

  “How about something you didn’t read in the CIA Fact Book?”

  “My kid’s shitty plastic toys are made there?”

  “Screw you, Tony.”

  “You’re a downer, you know that?”

  “Really? I’m not that bad. Am I?”

  “Let’s put it this way. You’d punch a unicorn.”

  I think back to when we first met. I’ve loved the way we talk to each other. The witty rapport is part of my attraction to him. But he’s right. I can be a little overbearing.

  “Screw you, Li. You’re busting my balls because I don’t know about a place you lived in when you were six?”

  “I’m Taiwanese. My nationality is who I am, Tony.”

  “What do you know about Judaism?” he asks me. “About our struggle? When we were slaves in the land of Egypt?”

  “You’re a Jew from Ann Arbor.”

  He points to the American flag on my bookshelf. The one I got on Fire Island over Independence Day. “See that?” he says. “You ate hamburgers. You saw fireworks. American. Maybe Asian-American.”

  “But I’m culturally Taiwanese. I respect my ancestry.”

  “I hardly noticed your slanted eyes.”

  “You can’t manipulate me and push me away. I won’t fall for your emotional games.”

  “Be careful, Li. I’m very good at pushing people away. It’s what I do best.”

  “You can’t hide behind your sexual conquests, your fetishes, your bad behavior. I know there’s something good in you. You don’t fool me. I can only imagine why you’re afraid to show your true self.”

  “Don’t psychoanalyze me, Li. Go see a shrink if you’ve got fucked up Asian issues.”

  “You can’t play music the way you do without being sensitive. When you play, it changes me. Your heart is poetic and your music is one of the most beautiful things I’ve heard.” I put my hand on his thigh and look at him. “I’m not asking you to change. I’m asking you take down your defenses. For once, take down your guard, Tony. For me. Be real for a minute.”

  “You’re just another Asian girl, Li Hua. You’re nothing special.”

  “You can’t manipulate me. You can’t push me away.”

  “I’ve always loved you, Li Hua.”

  “Don’t change the subject. You can trust me, Tony.” I jump on top of him and stare into his hazel eyes. “Are you that afraid of being close to someone? Why would I hurt such a beautiful soul?”

  “Everyone has hurt me, Li. You have no idea.”

  “Maybe if you share with me. Just a little. This one time. Maybe you’ll get love and understanding without the hurt,” I say.

  “Why do you think I play? It’s the only way I can share my emotions. Music is the only way,” he says.

  As his words settle, my arms and legs suddenly flush with warmth. In
this small moment, my heart grows a little fonder for him. I’m a little softer and kinder. “You’re my flawed angel, Tony. God I love you.” I stroke his face and kiss him. “You’re never going to open up, are you? You’re never going to commit. You, my friend, are flawed.”

  “You’re one to talk!” he says, flipping me onto my back. He starts tickling me and nibbles at my neck. I squeal with laughter as he pulls off my towels.

  EFF’S WIFE HAS BEEN OUT OF TOWN ALL WEEK WITH THEIR SON. WITH THEM GONE, last night was a rare sleepover. But, I’m a little on edge. Being here at their home feels wrong. This isn’t my apartment or a hotel. There are toys in the frickin’ bathtub, for god’s sake.

  It’s almost five A.M. and I awake before my alarm. I have to be out of here before Jeff’s neighbors wake up, have a chance to see me. Last night’s sleep was fitful, not at all restful. I’m standing here full of angst in their beautiful kitchen, surrounded by Italian tile and hardwood. I turn on the tap, filling my glass in the sink, then look around at the appliances. This kitchen is nearly the size of my apartment. I maneuver around the massive island countertop and make my way quietly down the hall. I try not to touch anything, as if the objects are the marriage itself. Don’t touch the stuff and you won’t hurt the marriage.

  I enter the bathroom and click on the light, then set my glass down on the sink. I look at my face in the mirror, examining my puffy morning face. I pinch the sagging skin beneath my eyes, then smooth my wrinkles by stretching them with my index fingers. My youthful appearance looks great, until I let go. My skin sloughs as it snaps back into place.

  I look over at the toilet and something odd catches my eye. I look closer, then grab my mouth; a half-scream escapes my lips. My other hand flinches involuntarily, sweeping the water glass on to the floor. It drops like a bomb onto the tile, spraying shards of glass and liquid up and out like a nuclear blast. I stumble back, then run to the bedroom on autopilot.

  “You ASSHOLE!” I yell.

  Jeff bolts upright in bed, awakened from his slumber. “Jesus Christ! What is it!?”

  “You selfish prick! You couldn’t help yourself, could you?!”

  “God! Is everything... What’s the... Look at yourself! Calm down, Li Hua!”

  I’m standing and shaking in my underwear, my legs soaking wet, feet cemented to the floor. I’m so angry I can’t move.

  “Calm the hell down! What’s gotten into you!?”

  I thrust out my hand and open my palm.

  “What the hell is that?” he says.

  A fleeting semblance of calm overtakes me. “That’s exactly what I was about to ask.” In my hand is a fluorescent green hair clip.

  Jeff leans forward in bed, looking at my outstretched hand. “Now just hold on a second. Look at yourself, Li Hua. Calm down and relax. I don’t know where you found that. Seriously. Look at yourself.”

  “You’re fucking Mingmei! I found this on the toilet. Don’t even try to deny it.”

  “Your legs, Li Hua. Look at yourself.”

  I can’t stop shaking. I’m hyperventilating and can barely stand. Suddenly, I start crying and the hair clip drops the floor. I’m hunched over sobbing, hands on my knees. Then I see that my feet are soaked in blood.

  “I know what you’re thinking, but, honestly, I have never had sex with that girl. Yes, she was here. We were discussing an orchestra matter and she must have left it behind,” Jeff says.

  “News flash, asshole,” I wheeze, looking up from my crouch. “Single women don’t visit the homes of married men.”

  “Right,” Jeff says. “Only whores do that.”

  I rush over to him, swinging my arms, flailing my hands, trying to connect my fists to his face. I swing wildly as he deflects my blows.

  “You fucking fuck. Loser fuck. Cheating fuck. Loser! Asshole. Cheating motherfucker!” I rage at Jeff, tears running down my face, cries coming from my lips. He pins my arms to my side, stopping me from lashing out. “She’s a fucking child, you sick fuck!” Snot is running out of my nose, mixing with my tears as I squirm. My feet soak the duvet and sheets in blood.

  “Mingmei is an adult, just like us,” he says calmly. “She can make her own decisions.”

  “No, she’s sixteen. That makes it statutory rape. Not to mention all the booze and coke you gave her so you could fuck her.”

  “You’re one to talk,” he barks. “I’m getting moral advice from the sex-addicted alcoholic?”

  “Fuck you, Jeff!”

  “Get the fuck out of my apartment. You’re not welcome here!”

  I tear from his arms, picking my clothes off the floor. Crying and hyperventilating, I grab some toilet paper to try and soak up the blood from my legs. I dress quickly and grab my purse from the hallway, then kick his violin case as I run out the door.

  • • •

  My apartment is silent. I sit and wait. I will allow myself a fifteen-minute cry. Fifteen is the number I’m sticking with. That’s five times three. Forty-five divided by three. That’s it. Starting now.

  I look down at my phone for a time check. I look away from the display and wait. A little time passes and I look back at my phone. Five minutes have ticked by. I wait for the tears. I wait for the rush of sadness to well up inside me and spill over. I wait for the overwhelming grief. But, nothing.

  I will only allow myself this one cry. I will not wallow in misery. I will not feel sorry for myself after fifteen minutes. The cry better come right now! But the sadness doesn’t come. No sorrowful thoughts pop into my head. Another five minutes ticks by. Still no tears. I wait. There. That’s fifteen minutes.

  This cry was important. It was the cry to show my inner sadness. To show my grief for the end of my relationship with Jeff. The sorrow for what is now gone. This was an important cry. A cathartic cry.

  As I sit here, I realize I’m more angry than sad. I’m the one to blame. I’m mad at myself for being so stupid. Another in my string of bad decisions. Once a cheater, always a cheater. I should have known.

  I look around my Murray Hill apartment and take stock. My place is pretty nice for a single girl. I’ve got a one bedroom with an en suite bathroom and a walk-in closet. I’ve got decent water pressure and my neighbors are chill. Life could be worse.

  I get up, walk over to my wine rack, and pull out a Spanish rosé I’ve been saving for a special occasion. I deserve something special right now. I pour myself a glass and plop back down on the couch. I take a sip. That hits the spot.

  I’m more disappointed than anything. I’m angry that I trusted someone who was already living a lie. My anger wells up inside me, but I decide to bottle it. Something tells me I may need it soon.

  I pick up my phone and check my voicemail for messages. Nothing. I open my Claffer app and check the latest classical news headlines:

  @CLASSICALMUSICGOSSIPNYC LI HUA HUI LOVES DRINKING MORE THAN MUSIC? STOP THE PRESSES! #NYCDELAGOTTARIORCHESTRA #CONCERTMASTERZHENGNYC

  @SEXYCLASSICALMUSICGIRLSNYC WE HEAR THE MAESTRO LIKES THE HARD OPTION NOT THE SOFT #NYCDELAGOTTARIORCHESTRA #CONCERTMASTERZHENGNYC

  More lies.

  I start thumbing through my email and I see a new message from Rick at PGMR Records. He’s the business manager for the big pop diva I’m hoping to work with. “Hi, Li Hua,” it begins. “This isn’t a message that’s easy to deliver,” it continues. Shit.

  The rest of the message is filled with boilerplate. Anyone who’s received a rejection letter knows the tropes and clichés. “Although this project doesn’t align with our strategy at this time, we have every confidence in you,” it reads. And, “If market conditions change, we’ll certainly consider you for a future project with one of our artists.”

  But it’s the ending that does it. The ending of his email uses the most tired line ever written. “Good luck with your future endeavors!”

  All of a sudden, I feel something. My jaw starts trembling and my mouth begins to twitch. My breathing gets shallow and rapid and my chin falls to my chest. I drop my
arms to my sides and cry.

  Y APARTMENT IS DARK. IT’S BEEN TWO DAYS SINCE I’VE BEEN OUTSIDE. MY mini-blinds are drawn and the TV is on, but muted. Bored to tears, I open up Claffer:

  @SEXYCLASSICALMUSICGIRLSNYC 32 MUSICIANS ARE BEING CUT FROM THE DE LA GOTTARI ORCHESTRA? SAY IT AIN’T SO! #CONCERTMASTERZHENGNYC #NYCDELAGOTTARIORCHESTRA

  I read the news again. Thirty-two musicians? Thirty-two. I jump up and run around my apartment. I gather some things and put them on my coffee table. I look down and take stock of everything: pens, paper, phone, street addresses, cash, keys, wallet, extra phone battery. I jump on my computer and pull down a few addresses and phone numbers. I sync my phone to my computer as I pop in the shower.

  After I emerge, I change, then sweep everything on the table into my purse. I hate Times Square. That’s why I’m going there right now.

  While I’m in motion, I text Mingmei to see if she can meet me at the Dark Castle later today. Can she meet me this afternoon for something urgent? Sure, she replies. Does she mind being a character witness for me at the administration building? NO PROBLEM, SIS, she texts back.

  • • •

  My cab squeals as it rolls up to the curb at the Dark Castle. Four hours and five phone calls later, I’m finally here. I crack the door of the cab and launch up the stairs at full tilt. I know the gravity of this meeting and I’m just trying to stay focused.

  I’m shocked they agreed to meet me on such short notice. It’s great that Notrabi agreed to meet with me. But I didn’t expect that she’d be able to corral Zheng and De La Gottari. Great news. And I have Mingmei. Oops. I stop, turn around, and head back down the front steps.

  I walk around the front of the building, craning my neck, trying to catch sight of her. Finally, I spy her on the opposite side of the street, walking over. I wave hello and walk over to greet her. She air kisses me and we walk back up the stairs to the lobby.

  Once inside, we head up to De La Gottari’s office. I feel confident about what I’m going to say and I carry a sheaf of papers in my hand. But, I don’t say a peep to Mingmei. Surprise is key. She follows along as we make our way down the corridor to his office. The door is open, so we walk in. I look around: not a soul in sight.