A Tale of Beauty

by Patrick Balzamo

  He shakes his head, and takes the envelope. “Fine, I’ll do it. But I just gotta tell you that you are one pushy bitch.”

  “Call me what you like.” I’ve won. That’s all that matters.

  “Just did,” he says, grinning. It’s a nice enough smile, and I can see how someone like Sue might fall for it. “If Sue gets pissed, it’s on you.”

  “Of course.” Men are so easily led.

  I’m eating dinner when a ping from my computer alerts me to a new e-mail. It’s from Denise. Or is it? When I open it, I see it’s an automated e-mail containing a free trial of one of her silly games. At the bottom, there’s a short note from her: “I know games aren’t really your thing, but I thought you might enjoy this one.”

  I pick up my phone and call her. In my current state, it’s probably not the best idea, but I don’t want to ignore it. Goddess forbid, she might take my silence as encouragement. “Hello?” she says.

  “Good evening, Denise.” I scroll back to the top of the e-mail. “I’ve just received your message, and I must admit that I’m a bit confused by it. As you say, video games are not one of my interests.”

  “Yes, I know.” She laughs. “It was just me being impulsive. But I was talking to Forlander, and —”

  “Who?”

  “Oh, just some random guy that I met in-game. He invited me to his guild, but I’m not sure I’m ready for that yet.” She laughs; I don’t. “Anyway, he was talking about how he’d introduced some of his friends to the game, people who’d never touched a game in their lives, and I thought of you right away.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yes. I thought that if you ...” She pauses, then doubles back. “The main reason why I started playing was because I thought it might help me get more in touch with my characters, and it has. I created one based on Jibril the other day, and playing that character has made me feel so much closer to her. I thought that it might help you with that story you’re working on if you created a character based on that girl, Rachel?”

  “Ruby.” It’s an effort not to snap at her.

  “Right. Well, if you created a character like her, it might help you to write the story, wouldn’t it? They have mages here, with all kinds of neat tricks ... there’s even warlocks, if that’s a better fit.”

  “Thank you for thinking of me,” I say icily, “but I don’t believe that would help me. Ruby didn’t throw around sparkly lights, and she certainly wasn’t a traitor to the Craft.” Immediately, I feel the need to soften the blow. There’s no sense in picking a fight over this. “What I mean is that I don’t need help. The story is coming along very well.”

  “Oh, that’s great!” She does sound pleased, but when she speaks again, her tone is hesitant, placatory. “Did I upset you, Belle?”

  “Of course not.” If she can’t decide that for herself, I’m certainly not going to waste my time trying to enlighten her.

  “Good. Well, then, Belle, I think I’m going to let you go. I still have to make dinner, and I was hoping to take Jibril through a dungeon today. Some of them take hours; can you believe that? Hours in one dungeon ... it’s insane.”

  “Yes, it is.” And I am not referring to a dungeon.

  “Definitely.” She laughs. “Have a good night.”

  “Good night,” I say, and throw my phone down on the desk.

  Sue

  TWICE. THAT’S THE number of times I’ve been out since Belle came by. And the second time was because the fire alarm went off. It’s funny, because if someone had asked me before that what I’d do if it did, I’d have said, “Fuck it, I’ll just sit here and roast.” Gotta love that survival instinct.

  I did get up the energy to recharge my phone, but so far, it hasn’t been worth the effort. Belle’s already called a bunch of times, and even Chastity and Denise tried a couple of times each. Diana hasn’t, but that’s about what I expected. Not even Belle can muscle her into anything she doesn’t want to do, and she’s not going to apologize for being a bitch until I apologize for grossing her out. Maybe not even then.

  I haven’t answered any of them. I know what they want. I’ll call her back this afternoon, I tell the disapproving image of Belle in my head when she calls in the morning. Tonight, when she calls after her classes. Tomorrow, when she calls at night. I need to rest. And isn’t that a laugh, rest? I’ve had enough rest to qualify as a coma patient and I still feel like shit. I need to get moving. Sometimes, that thought gets me as far as the sweatpants and t-shirt in the closet. And then it’s back to rest.

  That’s what I’m doing when I hear a key scraping against the lock on the front door. Probably that senile guy from down the hall again. A second later, though, the key turns. What the hell? Hand shaking, I reach for the remote and mute the TV. Silence for a few seconds. I let out a breath. And then, footsteps. In the apartment.

  Okay. Don’t panic. Probably just Belle. She’s got a key. More footsteps. Getting closer? “Belle? That you?”

  The footsteps stop. “Belle?” No answer. Call the cops. I grope around on the nightstand. Shit! Where the hell is my phone? Last time I had it, I was ... putting it in the charger. In the front. Shit. The footsteps start again, and I look around for something I can use to protect myself with. There’s an umbrella in the corner and a statue of the Virgin Mary that Chastity gave my for my birthday. I take the statue, stand behind the bedroom door, and lift it up. Goddamn cheap plaster. The doorknob rattles. I lift the statue higher and try to stop shaking as I brace myself for someone to come busting in.

  But there’s a knock instead. “Sue?” A man’s voice, very familiar. What the fuck?

  “Nick?” I lower the statue, but hold on tight to it while I pull the door open. “What are you doing here? How did you get in?” I take a second to catch my breath. “You scared me half to fucking death.”

  “Yeah. Sorry,” he says sheepishly, not looking me in the eye. “I tried to call, but ...” He trails off. “This was a shitty idea.”

  “What the hell are you doing here?” I repeat.

  “Damned if I know.”

  “Where’d you get a key? How’d you even know where I live?”

  “Your friend. Bella, or somethin’?”

  “Belle?”

  “Yeah, that’s her. Short, black hair, grade-A bitch. She called me up and said I should go see you, that you weren’t doing good?” He looks me over. “Looks like she was right.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense. Belle wouldn’t have called you.”

  “Well, she did.”

  “She hates your guts. Besides, she doesn’t have your number.”

  He shrugs. “What do you want me to tell you? Ask her why she did it.”

  I feel very tired all of a sudden, and try to resist the urge to crawl back into bed. “Okay, whatever. So you broke into my apartment just because she told you to? She cast a spell on you or something?”

  “Huh?”

  “Nothing.” I close my eyes for a second. Just go, I want to say, but I can’t get the words out. “What were you thinking?”

  “I don’t know. I was ...”

  “Curious? Stupid?”

  He glares at me. “Worried.”

  I laugh in his face. “Why? We’re not together anymore, remember? I could cut my wrists and it wouldn’t matter to you.”

  His jaw tenses. “Sure it would.”

  I turn away from him. “Go home, Nick. Just leave the keys somewhere.”

  He shuffles, but then stops. “You okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “No, you’re not.” A pause. “You’re different.”

  I snicker and turn just far enough to watch him out of the corner of my eye. “Of course I am. But this is just me.” I smile coldly. “You only ever saw what I wanted you to see.”

  “Nah. I don’t think so.”

  “You should. It’s the truth.”

  “No, ‘cause if you were really this much of a wimp, you could never have acted that tough.”

  I
turn to face him. “Where do you get off calling me a wimp?”

  “For Chrissake, look at you. When’s the last time you took a damn shower?”

  “Why can’t you just go away?”

  “‘Cause you’re a goddamn wreck and I —” He cuts himself off with a grunt.

  “You what? Can’t stop watching the freak show? Maybe I should call every other guy I ever screwed and invite them over too. If I sell tickets, then maybe I’ll have money for next month’s rent.”

  “I care about you.”

  “Sure,” I say as scornfully as I can manage

  He slams his fist down on the dresser, and I jump. “I’m fucking serious!” In a slightly calmer but shakier voice, he adds: “Why do you have to treat me like I’m jokin’ or something?”

  “Okay, whatever. So you’re serious. Big deal.” I sit down on the bed. “Can you go already? I’m too tired to argue.”

  He takes a step forward, then another. I tense up, ready to react if he tries to come closer, but he stops. “Sorry,” he says. “I just wanted to help. Didn’t want to screw things up more.”

  “I know,” I hear myself saying. “I’m just screwed up.”

  “Who’s not?” He pauses. “Hey, if there’s somethin’ I can do ... if you want to talk, or whatever ... I’m no good at this, but you get what I mean, right?”

  “Yeah. Thanks.” I look up.

  “Okay. Cool.” He digs around in his pocket and puts the keys on my dresser. “I’m gonna leave these here.”

  “Thanks.”

  He nods. “Yeah. Later,” he says, and walks out of the room.

  I sit there staring at the floor for a long time after he’s gone. When I finally get back into bed, I go straight back to sleep.

  Denise

  ROSE’S PARTY WAS already almost three weeks ago, and Clyde’s been avoiding me ever since. He still nods politely if we should happen to pass each other during the day, and on the rare occasions when I’ve had to ask him a question, he hasn’t treated me any differently than he did before the party, but he never comes over to my desk anymore, not even to give me some of his work to complete. Of course, I’m glad not to have the extra work, and part of me understands that I should be keeping my distance from him, but I can’t help missing him. How pathetic is that? What would Belle say, if she knew?

  One morning, though, completely out of the blue, I get an e-mail from Clyde with no subject line. “If you’re free at lunch today, I’ve got a couple of things I’d like to talk to you about. We could sit in the park. That work for you?”

  My first instinct is to say “No,” but a minute later I find myself replying, “Sure.” I try to tell myself that I’m just curious about what he might have to say, but I’m nowhere near delusional enough to believe that it’s just simple curiosity that’s driving me. I’m looking forward to having a conversation with him again.

  He’s waiting for me by the elevators at lunchtime with the same old grin, like nothing’s changed and nothing ever will. “Hey.”

  “Hi.” He pushes the down button, and I try to think of safe, appropriate conversation topics as we wait for the elevator to arrive. “Is that a new jacket?”

  “What, this?” He looks down at his sleeve. “Yeah, I got it a few weeks ago. Birthday present.”

  “It was your birthday? I didn’t know.” The elevator comes, and I follow him onto it. “Happy belated birthday.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Was it nice?” I ask as I watch the numbers overhead count down to the ground floor.

  “Huh?” Before I can clarify, he gets it. “Oh, yeah, it was great. We went to my mom’s place, saw the family ... got presents and cake.”

  Despite my apprehension, I smile. “And that’s the important thing, right?”

  “For sure.” The elevator stops, and we get off.

  For some reason, there aren’t very many other people on the street, which makes it more easy to walk but more difficult to avoid conversation. “Things have been pretty quiet for the past couple of days, haven’t they?”

  “Yeah. Seems everyone’s playing Solitaire when I walk by.” He grabs my sleeve suddenly, and I whirl around in shock. “Whoa, watch it. The light’s red.”

  I turn back to the street in time to see a truck pass in front of us and wince. “Sorry. I wasn’t looking.”

  “No worries.” He grins, and I’m only conscious of the fact that he hasn’t let go of me when he takes his hand back a moment later.

  At the park, Clyde takes the nearest empty bench. I sit next to him but not so close as to make contact.

  “I owe you an apology,” he says.

  “What for?” I turn to face him, but he’s staring straight ahead, like he’s giving a speech in English class.

  “Rose’s party.” He shakes his head. “No, not just that. Other stuff too. I ...” He looks down at his hands, then, finally, at me. “I make you really uncomfortable, don’t I?”

  “No, of course you don’t,” I start to say, but he cuts me off.

  “It’s okay. I get it now.” He looks away again, and I follow his gaze to the street beyond the leaf-strewn grass. “You don’t like being with people. And it’s more complicated than that, I know. I’m not explaining it right.” He sighs, then throws his arm over the back of the bench and looks me straight in the eye. “When I met you, I felt really bad for you. You had such a hard time fitting in at work, it didn’t look like you had very many friends outside of it and ... I guess I wanted to try to help you get over that. And I thought that it might help if I could show you how much fun it was to just hang out with other people, just go out and have fun. I was so thrilled when you finally said yes to Rose’s party.”

  “And then you found me cowering in the corner,” I say.

  “Yeah. And it was totally my fault that you were there being miserable instead of ... playing games at home, I guess.” He smiles briefly. “Anyway, I’m sorry for pushing you so hard, and not getting it sooner. That’s all I wanted to say.”

  I watch him, looking for clues to how I’m supposed to respond to this. His expression is neutral, and doesn’t give me much to work with. What is he expecting? “Thank you,” I finally say. “I appreciate that very much ... not just the apology, I mean, but also that you tried so hard.”

  “Effort counts for something after all, huh?” He laughs, and even I manage a chuckle. “There’s one thing I still can’t figure out, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Why did you say yes to that party, and not any of the others?” I look away, afraid that I might start blushing, and as I begin flailing desperately for an explanation, he adds: “I’ve got a theory, y’know.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yeah. It’s kind of crazy, but ...” He clears his throat. “Did you think it was just going to be us? Like, you and me?”

  I laugh uneasily and force myself to look at him. I could lie, but I don’t see the point. “That was the impression that I got at first, yes.”

  “Hmm, interesting. And here I always thought you’d be more likely to say yes if we were going out in a group. Shows what I know.” He stares at me seriously, intensely. “I’ve got a girlfriend. Going on two years with her now, actually.”

  “Oh, of course. I didn’t mean ... I mean, I wasn’t expecting ...” I close my eyes and focus on taking a deep breath to calm the sudden onrush of anxiety. “I’m not looking for a relationship right now.”

  “Okay. Just wanted to make sure we were on the same page.”

  “Yes, of course.” I feel relieved and bereft all at once.

  “So, do you want to go out this Saturday? Just us, I promise, and just as friends.”

  I blink myself back to reality, and nod. “Okay. Sounds good.”

  “Cool.” He grins. “It’s a date, then.”

  Sue

  THREE DAYS AFTER Nick’s visit, I finally manage to get out of bed without feeling like I just climbed a mountain, and it’s all thanks to the one thing that�
�s been circling around my mind like a rabid squirrel: What was Belle thinking when she gave Nick those keys? I could ask her over the phone; she’s called half a dozen times since Nick was here. But this is something that I want to do face to face, and that means dragging my sorry ass out of bed and getting dressed.

  First problem: all the clothes that I can find are either filthy or ripped. I don’t want to show up at Belle’s house looking like a slob today. I’m frantically pulling clothes out of the closet when I see it: the black widow outfit, still in its dry-cleaning bag from my last visit to Nick’s. I’ve never worn it for anything except a breakup, but ... I rip the bag off it and toss it onto the bed. Just clothes, for Christ’s sake, and if I don’t wear this, it’s the mustard-stained sweatpants. What about shoes? I don’t want to wear heels, but I’d look like a clown with the sneakers. If I’m not going to wear the heels, might as well go with the sweatpants.

  Once I’ve got everything on, I check myself in the mirror. Still time to change my mind. I’ve just gotten out of bed; do I really want to risk a fight with Belle first thing?

  I don’t know what the answer is, but I head for the door anyway.

  Luckily, I’m late enough that I don’t have to deal with the horrors of a rush hour bus ride. But some screaming kids and a crusty old hag who thinks her name’s on every seat in the bus have me worn out by the time I get off at Belle’s. I sit in the shelter and take a second to try and get myself together. I just had to come here. Couldn’t think of anything else to do but go halfway across town to pick a fight with my best friend.

  Do best friends usually hand out your house keys to your ex-boyfriends? I wonder. The answer’s obvious, but I want to hear what she has to say for herself first. There’ll be enough time to bitch her out after she’s tried to make excuses.

  Someone’s on their way out when I get to Belle’s building, and so I’m able to get in without having to buzz her. Once I’m standing outside her apartment, I listen to her moving around inside while I work up enough courage to knock. When I do, she stops immediately, then moves toward the door much more quietly. There’s a flicker of light in the peephole just a second before the locks click, and she throws the door open with a big smile.